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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948965">Thurgilsons, vol. 2 - Vikings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGuided12/pseuds/MissGuided12'>MissGuided12</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thurgilsons [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last Kingdom (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>9th Century, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Love, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Psychopathology &amp; Sociopathy, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, Vikings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:01:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28948965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGuided12/pseuds/MissGuided12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the second part of my backstory on Erik and Sigefrid Thurgilson. </p><p>The year is 869, and the brothers have left Norway as Vikings to join the Norse settlement of Dyflin in Ireland. This journey will take them to Scotland, to Frankia and to Northumbria, where they become earls of Eoferwic.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Erik Thurgilson &amp; Sigefrid Thurgilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Thurgilsons [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>I would like that: A Sigefrid Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dyflin</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is just a teaser chapter for what's to come. Norse Viking adventures in a reasonably plausible historical context, tits jokes, and hopefully some emotional depth along the way!</p><p>A quick note about languages and dialects: in TLK, the brothers speak in non-native English, and Erik's accent is lighter than Sigefrid's. Up until now in my series, the brothers have been speaking "Old West Norse" (the Danes, by comparison, used to speak Old East Norse, which is a continuation of the same dialect, so Norwegians and Danes would have understood each other). </p><p>Also, I conveniently (for me) made their "Norse" sound like contemporary English, with the assumption that they would have sounded contemporary to each other (also, I have zero knowledge of any modern Scandinavian languages).</p><p>So teenage Sigefrid's speech is noticeably speedier, especially when he gets excited, while grown up Sigefrid's English is slower and more deliberate, with perhaps more limited vocabulary. I hope it works, and that the brothers still sound like themselves! </p><p>I plan to make them sound more like they do in the show once they finally arrive in Northumbria.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the late summer of the year 869, Norse brothers Erik and Sigefrid Thurgilson, aged 16 and 19, sailed with earl Knud’s Viking fleet to Dyflin, the Norse settlement established in Ireland almost 30 years prior. </p><p>Dyflin was ruled by two brothers, Olaf and Imar, who called themselves co-kings of the Irish Norsemen. Olaf, the eldest, had been the first man to ever rule the emerging Norse kingdom. His rule was energized, however, when he shared the crown with his ambitious sibling. For a time, Olaf and Imar also brought in a third ruler, their younger brother Asl, but he proved too power-hungry. And so, two years ago, Asl had met an untimely death at the end of a knife that was rumoured to be Olaf’s. </p><p>Olaf and Imar held court from a great hall at the center of the thriving settlement. Olaf managed matters of the land, and Imar managed the fleet. Dyflin had first emerged as a longphort, a shore fortress built by Irish Vikings to enclose their ships and serve as a base for their raiding activities. But it was growing rapidly with the arrival of Norse families that lived year-round in wooden houses that formed orderly little streets. The place had become a buzzing trading center with ties to England and Scotland, and a vibrant slave port. </p><p>The arrival of Knud and his men relieved some of the pressure from the Irish, and from Danish Vikings who rivalled the Norse Vikings in their conquest of Ireland. Knud had come to serve Imar. His warriors had set camp close to the water, ready to sail at a moment’s notice. Sigefrid and Erik shared a tent with two other young warriors who, like themselves, had left home behind to make their wealth and reputation. </p><p>Earl Knud, who was a practical man, had consolidated his wilder warriors, which included Sigefrid and thus Erik, under the leadership of his most unhinged shipmaster, Frode. Their crew was typically sent on missions for which their savagery was an asset rather than a hindrance. It was a risky life that came with camaraderie, reputation and good plunder as long as one managed to stay alive. </p><p>And Sigefrid thrived. But as the temperature dropped with the arrival of the fall, Erik withdrew into a sort of gloom that rarely left him. He’d seemed to have lost the capacity to enjoy most things, and he’d either brood or work or sleep. </p><p>Sigefrid felt for Erik, and he was relentless in his efforts to cheer him up. One late morning, he thought he’d stumbled upon just the right thing to help his brother live a little. He found Erik sulking, sitting outside their tent.</p><p>“Eerrrriiiiik!!! You will not believe what I found!! It. Is. Perfect!”  Sigefrid announced, excitedly. "To get you back out there..." he added.</p><p>Erik brushed his brother off. “I’m fine. I...”</p><p>“Yeah, you look swell... Good thing I’m looking out for you!! I’ve got two words, brother: twins.” Sigefrid was beaming.</p><p>“That’s one word,” Erik scoffed.</p><p>“Ok, you don’t understand: twins, Erik.”</p><p>“Haha,” Erik said, sarcastically. “Sigefrid, I know what twins are.”</p><p>“No, you don't get it: identical twins. There’s two of them. Looking exactly the same.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“Thor, are you truly this dense, or are you just pretending?! Here, let me draw it for you.” </p><p>Sigefrid grabbed a twig and started tracing shapes in the dirt.</p><p>“Ok, this... is your head.” He made a round shape that included a nose. “Now imagine Estrid’s tits in your face.”</p><p>Erik glared at him. </p><p>“Or any tits. Just tits. General tits. So they’re right… there, in your… face.” </p><p>Erik was actually impressed with the artistry of Sigefrid’s drawing. </p><p>“Ok, now there’s another set right… here. But not just any set. The exact same set, Erik. Your head is basically cushioned between four. identical. breasts.”</p><p>Sigefrid threw his twig. “Now if that doesn’t blow your mind, I don’t know what will.”</p><p>Erik laughed, a genuine laugh. “And where did you find these… twins?”</p><p>“Just down at the ale house, brother! You might be able to get them both if we get there early enough!!" Sigefrid cheered.</p><p>Erik was lucky, and he had to concede to Sigefrid that four was indeed a very comforting number.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1. I don’t know exactly why, but I just have this almost absolute certainty that Sigefrid is a boobs person. Don’t ask. I also wrote this when I had Tim Minchin’s Confessions stuck in my head. “Fuck I love boobs though… do pee do…”</p><p>2. The city of Dyflin was originally a Norwegian Viking settlement, starting from 841. It was built for Vikings to winter in Ireland. Danish Vikings arrived in 851 and the Norse and Danes fought each other as much as they fought the Irish. It eventually became a town that grew into modern day Dublin.</p><p>Olaf, Imar and Asl, the three co-kings of Dyflin, are historical characters, and Asl is thought to have been axed by his brothers.<br/>https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kingdom_of_Dublin</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Young Men's Pagan Association</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm sorry, this is a rough one, probably the most violent and graphic chapter I've written so far. Vikings are gonna viking. </p><p>Warning: violence, torture, a sad orphan, Sigefrid’s usual lack of social boundaries, some mentions of prostitution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Life in Dyflin was rough, but simple enough. When they were not sailing, the men would entertain themselves with drinking and games. Sigefrid particularly enjoyed starting food fights at the ale house, throwing sharp bones at comrades until someone screamed for mercy, started a brawl or got them kicked out. </p><p>Some warriors, typically older and more established, took wives or concubines or they’d purchase bed slaves. But Erik had sworn off commitment, and Sigefrid placed a high price on his freedom, and so, like most other youngsters, they’d purchase relief à la carte on the free market with their share of plunder. </p><p>Their tent mate Bjørn, however, had just married a local girl from the settlement, which added nuance to their housing situation that Sigefrid ignored with glee. </p><p>Sigefrid limped back to their tent that afternoon with a sore leg from a rough game of knattleikr. He noticed the tent flap closed with the red rope, and decided to barge in anyways, leaving the flap wide open. </p><p>“Heeyyy!!’’ Bjørn shouted. His bride screeched and her face turned purple. </p><p>“Hey Bjørn! How does she ride?!” Sigefrid cheered.</p><p>“Piss off, Sigefrid…!!” He scrambled to cover their nakedness with a wool blanked. “I put the fucking cord up!!”</p><p>“My bad!” Sigefrid shrugged, nonchalantly. “I just came to wash up.”</p><p>Right then, Erik burst in, out of breath.</p><p>“Awww, come on!!” Bjørn groaned. </p><p>“Woah…” Erik looked away. “Sorry, Bjørn. Holga.” He nodded, his head still turned. “Knud’s gathering the men in the longphort.”  </p><p>“What’s happening?” Sigefrid asked.</p><p>“Don't know. Bring your sword.” Erik grabbed his weapon and left, closing the tent behind him.</p><p> </p><p>Hundreds of warriors gathered in the longphort’s courtyard and formed a wide circle around Knud and his shipmasters. Some of their comrades, a dozen men, were lined up on their knees in the middle of it. They looked rough. King Imar watched from the ramparts but did not speak. </p><p>Knud spoke, loudly and sombrely. </p><p>“These men, your brothers in arm, have been caught sailing off to the Danes. With your plunder! With your plans!! They betrayed your trust, and they put your lives in danger for their own greed.”</p><p>Knud let the crowd absorb the news. The longphort resonated with gasps and roars. Knud's face expressed nothing.</p><p>“These men have begged for their lives. For your mercy!!” he shouted.</p><p>“No mercy!!!” someone bellowed from the back of the crowd. </p><p>“But what kind of mercy do we grant a traitor?!” Knud asked. </p><p>“None!!!” the same man yelled again, and others in the crowd echoed his call and began chanting. </p><p>“There WILL be mercy!!” Knud shouted above the ruckus. </p><p>A few men booed. </p><p>“IF the instigator comes forward,” Knud continued, “the rest of his comrades will be granted a swift death.”</p><p>Knud gestured for a few men he hand-picked from the crowd to step forward, some of the more excited ones. Sigefrid was among them.</p><p>“Choose a prisoner,” he instructed. “Stand behind him and wait.”</p><p>Among the captives, a stern man, red faced, somewhere between 50 and 60, rose to his feet. His two sons were among the others.</p><p>“I did it,” he said, “I’m responsible.” His voice was too harsh and dry to travel very far. </p><p>Knud signalled for men to bring a wood barrel. Warriors dragged the prisoner forward and pushed him onto it, flat on his belly. </p><p>“Men without a tong do not talk to the enemy,” Knud said. He pulled a knife from his belt, reached into the traitor’s mouth and cut off his tong while two men held his head down. Blood splattered as the man emitted a panicked, guttural scream.</p><p>“Men without eyes do not spy for the enemy,” Knud continued. And he stabbed each of the man’s eyes. The crowd cheered him on.</p><p>“Men without hands do not kill for the enemy.” Knud pulled his sword from its sheath, and sliced each of the man’s hands with clean, swift strokes.</p><p>It was a slow, deliberate death, and the crowd was tense with a sickly, feverish excitement. Knud dismembered the man, methodically, purposefully. Then he cut his belly open with his sword and he left him on the ground to die, his innards spilling out onto the dirt.</p><p>The earl then turned toward the rest of the prisoners and he instructed his warriors. </p><p>“Just slice their heads off,” he commanded, and they did. </p><p>Knud stepped away, and the crowd dispersed, eventually. Sigefrid was in a raw, excited mood for the rest of the day, while Erik felt himself withdraw inside his own head.</p><p> </p><p>Later that evening, Erik was walking through the camp, carrying water in a bucket back, when he passed Knud’s tent, the biggest one set in the middle of the others. Knud was sitting by himself, starring at his camp fire. </p><p>“Erik. Sit,” the earl gestured. </p><p>Surprised, Erik put his bucket down and sat on a tree stump. Knud passed him a cup of ale which he accepted. </p><p>“So, another ship,” Erik said, trying to make conversation.</p><p>“Captured up North just yesterday,” Knud nodded. “I’ll need a crew. A shipmaster.” He looked at Erik then. “It could be you, in a few years.”</p><p>Erik was shocked by that. He typically kept a low profile, tucked safely behind Sigefrid’s oversized presence. He never thought that Knud saw potential in him. Or that he saw him at all, really. </p><p>“Rough day today…” the earl added. He looked awfully tired.</p><p>“Yes. A most unfortunate event…” Erik sighed. </p><p>“But necessary. The men needed to see what betraying their companions will cost them. Good men must know that I’ll kill for them,” he said. </p><p>“Why make Sigefrid do it?” Erik asked. </p><p>“I thought he could use the outlet. Spill a bit of blood… I let the men loose when I can.” </p><p>Erik said nothing, and Knud changed the subject. </p><p>“How are things with Frode?”</p><p>“Oh, Frode loves him…” Erik smirked.</p><p>“I thought he might.”</p><p>“I think he just gets him… Gives him breathing room. Blood to spill.” </p><p>“And you? You’re ok?” Knud asked, earnestly. </p><p>“Yeah… ok,” Erik shrugged. “Sigefrid’s growing... hungrier. Sometimes I fear he’s losing his… heart?” Erik wasn’t sure why he’d let that slip out. Maybe it was the intimacy of the campfire, or the ale loosening his tong. Or maybe he just craved to be understood by someone who saw what he saw. </p><p>“Did he ever have one?” Knud asked. </p><p>Erik did not know how to answer. </p><p>Knud added quickly, “my apologies. You know him better than anyone here would.”</p><p>That shocked Erik too. That Knud would apologize to him, like it mattered. </p><p>Abigall came out of the big tent, then. She stood by the open flap, very straight, both arms crossed, her long black hair flowing loosely, and she glared at them both. She was his bed-slave, his property. He’d purchased her at a Scottish slave port three years prior. But Knud treated her like a wife. Like a queen, some men said.</p><p>The earl stood up. “I need to go. I am to make amends…” he smiled, a bit sheepishly. </p><p>Erik smiled back, vaguely intrigued. He never found out how Knud had brought Abigall’s wrath upon his head, but judging by the loudness of the moans that resonated through the camp late into the night, he figured the earl had succeeded at redeeming himself.</p><p> </p><p>Three days had passed since that dreadful day when Erik rushed into the brothers' tent, attracted by shouting. He found Sigefrid kicking a scrawny boy who was on the ground on his knees, covering his head with his arms. He might have been around 11 or 12, no more. </p><p>Erik gasped. “Sigefrid, what’s going on??!”</p><p>“I caught the little shit stealing our bread!!” Sigefrid kicked him again in the stomach.</p><p>“Sigefrid, he’s just a child! He’s probably hungry…”</p><p>“He’ll have other things to worry about when I’m done with him!!”</p><p>Erik counted to five, covertly, to let Sigefrid blow some more steam onto the poor thing, then when he sensed him ease a bit, he positioned himself between his raging brother and the child. He pleaded, calmly. “Sigefrid, leave him… I’ll handle it.”</p><p>The boy was whimpering like a beaten dog. His lip was split open, the skin around his eye badly bruised. Erik sat down next to him and he gestured for Sigefrid to leave. </p><p>“What’s your name, boy?”</p><p>He did not answer. </p><p>“Do you speak Norse?” </p><p>“Yes,” he mumbled, without looking up.</p><p>“Here.” And Erik passed him the loaf of bread he picked up from the ground. “Where are you from? Did you escape?” Erik suspected he might have been a runaway slave. </p><p>“No. I’m from here.”</p><p>“Where’s your family?”</p><p>“Dead,” he shrugged.</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“My mother long ago. My father…” He choked on the words.</p><p>“Who was your father? What’s your name?”</p><p>“Dagfinn Halfdansson,” the boy mumbled.</p><p>“Oh!!... You’re Halfdan’s boy…”</p><p>Halfdan was among the men Knud had executed in the longphort. Erik had watched Sigefrid cut his head off. He felt a pit in his stomach.</p><p>“I’m sorry, kid. You can stay here. You’ll be safe. We’ll find you something to eat.”</p><p>Erik freed some space on the floor next to his bed for Dagfinn to sleep, and he took him under his care. The others complained, Sigefrid especially, but Erik stood firm. The boy rewarded Erik with absolute loyalty and devotion. He fetched them water, sharpened their weapons, cleaned their armors, and when Sigefrid finally came to terms with the fact that Dagfinn was here to stay, it was settled.</p><p>Soon, Erik discovered other purposes for Dagfinn. Knud always encouraged his warriors to pick up local dialects, something Erik had a good ear for, thought Sigefrid was less enthused. </p><p>“Dagfinn’s mother was Irish. He could teach us their tong,” Erik proposed to his brother.</p><p>“I do not wish to hear your stray dog speak. I’ve got my own teacher!” Sigefrid retorted.</p><p>“You’re learning Gaelige?” Erik smirked. </p><p>“I am!” Sigefrid beamed. “I hump… your… ale arse!!”</p><p>Erik laughed. “Right. Your horizontal activities are paying off. You keep up the good work!”  </p><p>“Oh, I have no plan to stop, brother!” he cheered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Inked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Norse warriors took great pride in their appearance, and the Thurgilson brothers were no exceptions. They’d tie the top of their hair back into a short braid, and regularly shave the sides of each other’s head with a sharp blade. Sigefrid’s beard had grown fuller, and he’d comb it neatly with a few beads, while the hair on Erik’s chin was hopelessly sparse.</p><p>Over the past few weeks, Sigefrid had gotten the sides of his head tattooed. A rather painful affair, he admitted, but he was particularly satisfied with the one Holga drew him, a fearsome snake that wrapped around his ear. For days, he’d been pressuring Erik to get one too, but his brother was reluctant. </p><p>After five too many cups of ale, Sigefrid finally convinced him to let Holga ink his head. She sat Erik down on his bed in their shared tent, while Bjørn prepared the ink and needles. Erik, who was very drunk but enthused, felt pretty confident about the whole thing.</p><p>“So… right here, then?” Holga asked, for the fifth time, pointing at the side of his head. “This side.”</p><p>“Yeeppp!” Erik cheered. </p><p>“You’re certain.”</p><p>“Neeevvver been ssso shhuuure!”</p><p>“And what am I drawing, exactly?”</p><p>“A foxxxx!!!” he cheered.</p><p>“A fox, ok,” she repeated. Bjørn brought the ink then, and Holga made Erik lie down.</p><p>“Erik, I thought you wanted a raven?” Sigefrid asked.</p><p>“Yesss, a raavvven!! That’ss wwhat I saaaiid,” he slurred.</p><p>Holga asked again, “Erik, you want a raven.”</p><p>“Yes, on thisss sssiiide,” he gestured toward the other side.</p><p>Holga hesitated. “Hmmm… maybe we should wait until you sober up…”   </p><p>“Nooooooooooo!!” Erik shouted. </p><p>Sigefred agreed. “He’s sure! Best do it now before the ale wears off. Won't hurts as much...”<br/>
Holga sighed, and made Erik turn on his side. </p><p>“Ok, raven it is…”</p><p>“Ooooowwww!!!” Erik whined. “That’ssss a reaaaallly paaaaiiinful foxxx.” Sigefrid sat by him to hold him down.</p><p>“Raven,” Holga corrected him. </p><p>“Painfulll ravvveen… Peckkiiing at my heeaaad. Peck, peck, peck...”</p><p>For a while, Erik was docile enough, and Holga was halfway through tattooing the raven on his head, when he started to fidget and sat up.</p><p>“Hooww's my foooxx comin' alooong?!!” he perked up.</p><p>“It's a raven, Erik.”</p><p>“I dooon’t want a stuuuupid raaavven. I wwwanttt a ffffoooooxxx!!” Erik groaned.</p><p>“It’s too late, I’ve already done half of it.”</p><p>“Fiiiiiixxx it!!! Do a fffooooxx!!!”</p><p>“I can’t do that. Should we stop and think about this?”</p><p>“Fffoooxxx!!!” he shouted. “It’sss myyy heeeaaddd, aaaannd I saaayy foooxx!!!”</p><p>Holga shot a concerned look to Sigefrid, who’d kept drinking while she worked. Sigefrid threw his hands up and said, “you heard the man. He wants a fox…”</p><p>Holga rolled her eyes, and she did the best she could. </p><p>Erik woke up passed noon the next day with the mother of all headaches, a patchy memory, and some questions. He held the metallic mirror they used for shaving, and was quite confused by what he saw. </p><p>He stumbled across the camp and found Holga, stirring a soup she was making on a cooking camp fire. </p><p>“What did you do?!” he passed his fingers on the freshly tattooed skin and winced.</p><p>“What you asked,” she scoffed.</p><p>“But what… is it??!”</p><p>Holga shrugged. “A raven. And then a fox. You felt quite strongly about it.” </p><p>“Arrrghh! So it’s a… faven?!!!” Erik was dumbstruck.</p><p>“A rox, maybe?!” Holga laughed.</p><p>“I need to kill my brother,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Please do. We’d be ever so grateful.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This being January 2021, I've been listening to viral sea shanties to get in the right mindset to imagine this story. I wrote this particular chapter with Nathan Evans' version of Druken Sailor playing in a loop in my mind.</p><p>Also, ever wondered why Dagfinn doesn't have head tattoos? He watched the whole thing at an tender age and noped out of it, hard.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The siege of Alt Clut</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've made peace with the fact that my chapter lengths will be greatly imbalanced!</p><p>Warning and apologies, this chapter might leave a bad taste in your mouth… See tags above, many of which apply.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the fall of 870, kings Olaf and Imar felt they had successfully curbed Irish and Danish attacks on Dyflin, and they turned their attention toward Alt Clut, the last Brittonic Kingdom that remained in Scotland. Its prized jewel was a formidable fortress built atop a very large rock with a steep 200 feet drop onto a river, the Clyde, which flowed into the Irish sea. </p><p>Olaf and Imar planned their attack for months. They would join forces with Scottish Vikings, an alliance forged through Olaf’s wife Aud, who’s Norse kin had colonized the Hebrides. Together, they would assemble a massive fleet and besiege the fortress. </p><p>For the siege to hold, the invaders would need food and supplies to maintain their encafmpment for months, which involved complex logistics. Imar’s leading men, Knud among them, worked their warriors tirelessly to gather grain, livestock, cooking gear, weapons, shields, mail and helmets, timber, tools and cloth. The goal was to rapidly set camp and build trenches around Alt Clut in order to cut off its food and water supplies and starve its inhabitants. A siege was a grim and dull affair that could drag on for weeks, and it required enormous discipline and coordination.  </p><p>Knud was chosen as Imar’s second to lead half the sea king’s fleet, which totalled 150 ships. Knud had made it clear that he wished to grow and claim land for himself and his men. In exchange for his support, Imar had promised Knud the Alt Clut stronghold were it to fall. Olaf’s infantry men filled another 50 ships, and the Scottish Vikings brought their own numbers, which added up to thousands of warriors. </p><p>In preparation, Sigefrid and Erik had each gotten a new sword from a reputed local smith, quality ones, which gave them a sense of control over the ground that was about to shift beneath their feet. Dagfinn was to remain in Dyflin with Holga and most of the women. Bjørn kicked his tent mates out early to spend his last night with his wife, and Sigefrid did not protest too much. </p><p>Their fourth tentmate, Aldrik, had met a group of young warriors at their favorite ale-house for an evening of drinking, but Sigefrid opted for a low-key night, which was atypical. They sat outside their tent, just Erik, Sigefrid and Dagfinn, and sipped on a drink by the camp fire. </p><p>“What’s eating at you?” Erik finally asked his brother.</p><p>“Saoirse got married,” Sigefrid groaned, absorbed by the patterns that had formed at the bottom of his cup of ale.</p><p>“Your Gaelige teacher?”</p><p>“Yeah…”</p><p>“I hadn’t realized you liked her that much,” Erik placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder.</p><p>“I did!! She did the most phenomenal things with her mouth…”</p><p>Erik chuckled. “Maybe you should have thought about putting other things in her mouth before someone else did. Like food…” </p><p>“I didn’t think,” Sigefrid sighed.</p><p>“You never think,” Erik retorted. </p><p>His brother shrugged it off. “That’s your job.”</p><p>Erik tilted his head to the side. “My apologies. It escaped my mind to make you ask your favorite ale-house whore in marriage.”</p><p>Sigefrid laughed and reached to slap his brother’s back. “Do better next time, Erik! You let me down.”</p><p> </p><p>The Irish see was rough when Olaf and Imar’s fleet sailed across it and reached the Scottish coast. They joined their Scottish allies in the Clyde river’s estuary. Aud stood with her kin and commanded her own fleet of 10 ships. Two days after they’d gathered, the Vikings sailed upriver to Alt Clut as a unified fleet of 250 ships. </p><p>Erik felt a pit in his stomach anticipating the battle to come, and even Sigefrid was fidgety. The fortress was reputed to be unassailable, and Frode’s men knew he would rush them into battle with abandon at the first opportunity, hoping to be first atop with little care for casualties. “To glory or Valhalla!!” their shipmaster liked to bellow. </p><p>The attack was launched as soon as the fleet reached the fortress to take advantage of the surprise. Knud led the 80 ships he commanded up the Leven river along which he beached the fleet in a long row. Men offboarded, attired for battle. The Thurgilsons each carried a sword, a knife, a battle axe and a shield. Sigefrid did not believe in helmets. The troops spread out across the narrow strip of land that connected the fortress to the land, until they encountered Olaf’s men and the Hebridean Vikings who’d beached their ships further up the Clyde and had walked toward them from the other side. Imar and the rest of his ships were to block the river at a safe distance from the fortress’ archers, sealing the Britons into their stronghold. </p><p>Knud and Omar’s men and their allies pushed uphill toward the fortress, forming a tight line. Scouts would run back to the marching army, confirming that any spotted Briton had fled on sight into Alt Clut, and barely any blood was shed that day. When Omar felt that they were close enough, he ordered the men to a halt, and they started digging a long ditch and made camp. Tents were spaced enough to help prevent disease from spreading, a common foe that plagued armies whenever they gathered for too long. </p><p>Within days, Arthgal, the king of Alt Clut, came out of his fortress with a small party of armed guards to negotiate with Olaf and Imar. Arthgal offered to pay off the Vikings a handsome sum to leave, but Olaf and Imar laughed in his face and asked for his surrender, which he also refused. And so Arthgal withdrew behind his walls and the wait game began.</p><p>To keep the men alert, sane and disciplined, Knud imposed a strict rationing on the ale, mead and wine that trickled through the camp. He ordered a few men to set up a knattleikr field, and dedicated space for wrestling matches and combat training. </p><p>The kings would send out raiding parties inland to secure food, horses and other goods, and to sooth restlessness. As time stretched, the Vikings were discovering, however, that the Britons had secured sufficient provisions to sustain a very long siege. Within a month, discipline was slipping, pressure was building up and brawls became distractingly frequent. </p><p>One evening when his warriors had been particularly rowdy, Knud finally admitted defeat and approached Frode. </p><p>“We need women.”</p><p>And Frode knew just what that meant. With glee, he ordered his warriors to get ready, and the next morning the febrile crew was sailing down the Clyde looking for a settlement to raid. </p><p>Within half a day, they saw smoke rising on the horizon. Frode anchored the ship and he sent out scouts, who stumbled upon a village of Britons. Men who owned mail and helmets put on their gear, warriors grabbed their weapons, and the unexpecting villagers never knew what hit them. </p><p>The slaughter was quick and bloody, and the bounty plentiful. Soon, the men had slashed farmer throats, gathered live stock, and rounded up two dozen women which they tied with ropes. </p><p>Frode was frenetic, almost irrational. He let his men loose on the village, just for kicks. When the place was properly sacked and burned down, disorderly warriors made their way back toward the ship with their plunder. Some of the men took liberties with their female captives, and Frode looked the other way. After weeks of intense discipline and idleness, they needed to spill some blood and release tension, he thought. </p><p>High on excitement, Birger approached Erik then.</p><p>“Hey!! Baby earl!!! Ever tried a Briton?!” He roared. He grabbed a terrified brunette by the hair and pushed her in Erik’s direction. </p><p>Erik caught the girl as she stumbled forward. “I’m good, Birger. Just leave her be.”</p><p>“Aww… What’s wrong with you?!” Birger scorned. “You scared of the vagina?!!” he laughed.</p><p>In a split second, Sigefrid passed from joyful to furious. He made a bee line for Birger and grabbed him by the throat. </p><p>“You leave him be, Birger!!!”</p><p>Birger gasped, but remained defiant. “What’s wrong with your brother, Sigefrid?”</p><p>Sigefrid threw him to the ground and growled. “Erik doesn’t like them when they’re freshly caught. He can’t stand the tears. A man’s allowed to like what he likes!!”</p><p>Sigefrid added with a grin, “just like you might prefer me not to pull my cock out and make your ass bloody with it, now would you, Birger?”</p><p>Judging by the loose spark that twinkled in Sigefrid’s eye, Birger wasn’t fully convinced that he wouldn’t follow through with his threat, and he broke his gaze.</p><p>“Apologies to your brother, Sigefrid. It was in jest. Nothing more.”   </p><p>Sigefrid punched his face for good measure, and Erik pulled Sigefrid away, trying to repress a smirk. Frode, who was herding his warriors toward the ship, patted Birger’s back. </p><p>“You still dumb enough to mess with Sigefrid’s brother heh, Birger? You don’t learn, big man?” he snorted. It had been a good day.</p><p> </p><p>The Alt Clut siege dragged on over Yule and into the next year. To keep the men sane, Knud rotated between the ships he commanded, sending them out on various missions. Frode’s crew had been patrolling southbound along the Eastern side of the Clyde estuary when they stumbled upon a temptation their captain found irresistible: a Danish ship, packed with warriors and anchored inside a small bay. </p><p>“Finally, a proper fight!!” Frode cheered. Erik looked at Sigefrid with concern, but Sigefrid’s smile almost reached his eyeballs. </p><p>Frode ordered the men to prepare for battle, and he stirred the ship into the bay, cutting off the Danes’ access to the sea. The Danes, who’d noticed the Norse ship from afar, fetched their shields and weapons in a panic, and Frode laughed excitedly. </p><p>The Norse shipmaster ordered his men to form a shield wall, and the Danes did the same. Soon, arrows were flying in both directions. Then, disaster struck. As it was about to make contact with the Danish ship, the Norse ship’s bow hit the bottom of the shallow bay, which sent its stern pivoting sideways. </p><p>Frode meant to align the ships along their length so the two crews’ shield walls would face in battle. Instead, his ship was positioned at a perpendicular angle that made his crew’s formation completely ineffective. A few Danes were quick to jump aboard the Norse ship, slaughtering the Norsemen one by one. Frode’s panicked orders were cut short by an arrow that pierced through his throat. </p><p>Erik grabbed Sigefrid, who was staring in horror, powerless to stop the massacre of their comrades. </p><p>“We need to jump ship,” he said. “It’s shallow. We face them on land. Call the men or we’re all dead.”</p><p>Sigefrid nodded, and he bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Grab your shields!! Abandon ship! ABANDON SHIP!!!!”</p><p>Desperate for directions, the men who still could jumped off, knee- to waste-deep into the freezing sea water. The Danish archers made it rain on the Norsemen. </p><p>Sigefrid screamed again, “SHIELD WALL. Two rows! We FALL BACK!!” </p><p>Wading through the water, the men who’d held onto their shield scrambled to overlap them. The front row of locking shields protected the body, while the second row protected heads from arrows. For a moment, the fight came to a halt. The Norse had lost about a dozen men, but their numbers were still a significant threat to the Danes, who’d lost their advantage.</p><p>Erik spoke to Sigefrid, calmly. “We can negotiate out of this.” </p><p>“You think?” Sigefrid said, sarcastically.</p><p>Erik insisted. “They're stuck too. They'll need to push. They don’t wish to lose men either.” </p><p>“What do we do?”</p><p>“We swap hostages. Trade them back when both ships are out of the bay.”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>“Trade me. Against their shipmaster. The tall one with the helmet. Make the offer.”</p><p>“You? You’re just a kid. I’ll go.”</p><p>Sigefrid stuck his head out from behind his shield, and he screamed, “A truce!! We wish to negotiate!”</p><p>“You’ve had enough, Norsman?!” the Danish shipmaster laughed. </p><p>Erik spoke then, loudly. “We wish to exchange hostages. Until both ships are out safely.” </p><p>Sigefrid added, louder. “You do not wish to lose men any more than we do!!”</p><p>The Dane laughed again. “Agreed!!”</p><p>Sigefrid responded, “You. Against me!”</p><p>And the Danish shipmaster, who was in a cheerful mood from the solid trashing he’d just given the overconfident Norsemen, accepted the trade. When both ships were out of the bay, Sigefrid jumped off the Danish ship and swam back into the freezing sea toward his crew, who pulled him onboard.</p><p>The Danish shipmaster slapped his wet back and asked, amused, “what’s your name, son?”</p><p>“Sigefrid. Sigefrid Thurgilson. And you are?”</p><p>“Svein Alfsson. A pleasure, Sigefrid!” </p><p>Sigefrid nodded, for he liked the shipmaster, who was safely returned to his crew before the Norsemen sailed back, master-less, to rejoin the siege. Upon their return, Knud exchanged a few words with Erik, then he made Sigefrid shipmaster of Frode’s crew. </p><p>“What’s the first thing you’ll do as shipmaster?” Erik asked his brother, excitedly.</p><p>“Trade Birger?” he winked at Erik. “Maybe change the prow beast for something more fearsome?”</p><p>“Like a wolf?” Erik proposed.</p><p>“Or a faven?!” Sigefrid laughed. “Or a giant sculpture of my cock…”</p><p>“Let’s take bets on how long you can hold on to the job. I give you two weeks!”</p><p>Sigefrid grinned. “But what a glorious two weeks, brother!!!”</p><p> </p><p>The siege went on for four grisly months, an unprecedented duration for Vikings invading the British Isles. Imar’s men, who’d pressured Alt Clut from the waterfront, eventually captured the lower portion of the rock where the well was located, pushing the defenders to retreat high up with no access to water. Within a day, the Britons finally capitulated. When the Vikings were done plundering the fortress of its treasures and taking captives, the brother kings were ready to leave.</p><p>“Pack your ships. We’re heading home,” Imar instructed Knud.</p><p>“Home,” Knud repeated, as if to confirm what he’d heard.</p><p>“Pack the slaves, and the plunder. We’re sailing back to Dyflin.”</p><p>“And the fortress?” Knud asked, without raising his voice. </p><p>Imar squirmed. “The fortress goes to Aud’s kin. Olaf insisted.”</p><p>“I see,” Knud said dryly. His voice remained calm, but he maintained his gaze on the king, forcing an uncomfortable silence.</p><p>“We made excellent plunder, Knud,” Imar shrugged awkwardly. “Omar’s been more than generous with your share.” He added, “you and your men are needed in Ireland.”</p><p>Knud knew how to recognize defeat, cut is losses and move forward, and so he ordered his men to prepare to sail. In the end, the brother kings had not wanted to split their forces, nor did they wish to groom a rival across the Irish sea. </p><p>“We’re heading back?!” Sigefrid let out, flabbergasted. He’d gotten excited about all the raids they could launch from their unseizable fortress. </p><p>“We’ve gained enough,” Knud said, matter-of-factly. “Loads of plunder. Hundreds of slaves. It will get us silver. Buy us weapons. Men for our ships. A good outcome.”</p><p>Erik was also surprised by the kings’ slight. Imar and Olaf stood on the shoulders of men like Knud, he thought. Years later, Erik would remember Knud telling him how sometimes it was simpler to remain in the shadows. “When the axe comes, it won’t be for your head,” he’d smirked.</p><p>And so, early in the year 871, Olaf, Imar and their fleet of 200 ships sailed back to Dyflin, filled with treasures and a great host of Briton slaves.</p><p>Later that year, Olaf joined his father Gofraid in Norway to help defend his kingdom, and he met his death on the battle field. His widow, Aud, sailed back to her kin in the Hebrides with their son Thorstein, leaving Imar as the sole king of Dyflin. </p><p>Knud grew strong in Ireland, and in the year 873, he announced to Imar that he was leaving. </p><p>“I’m sailing to Frankia,” he said, simply. </p><p>Imar was caught off guard, but he did not wish to make an enemy out of Knud, and so he reluctantly let him depart. Knud sailed his 25 ships down the coast of England to try his luck on the continent. That summer, Imar was also killed in battle, leaving his descendants to rule over Dyflin and the Irish sea.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter is based on Olaf and Imar’s epic, record-holding 4-month long siege of Atl Clut (Dumbarton Rock) in Scotland, which ended when the Britons’ well dried up and led to great plunder, and the capture of many slaves that were sold in Dublin, which eventually grew to become the biggest slave market in Western Europe. </p><p>Also, Olaf was truly married to Aud the Deep-Minded, a famous Norse/Scottish Viking badass who eventually sailed to Iceland. I’m not sure if she got the fortress, though. Knud’s fictional. He’s a cross between my old boss and a serial killer, I guess.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Bitter Honey (884)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mind the time jump!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The earls Sigefrid and Erik had sailed back with their fleet of ten ships along the Norse coast and into the fjord of their childhood. A long trading expedition that also met Erik’s need to fold back into something safe and familiar. Sigefrid’s injury, and his rocky recovery, had taken its toll on their ambitions and resilience. Erik sought comfort, for them both. It is that need that had brought them, almost mindlessly, to the small settlement they’d once called home.</p><p>There, Erik saw her again. His Estrid, whom he’d left behind. It was like tearing open an old wound he thought had healed long ago. The pain had been a distant memory, and now Erik was overwhelmed by the rawness of it all. His guilt. His longing. His love, still. </p><p>Erik made small talk and repressed a violent urge to burst through any respectful distance. He smiled and nodded. Estrid was coolly curious about what life had brought him, what kind of man he’d become. She taunted and mocked him which he more than deserved, he felt, so he let her. </p><p>Erik invited Estrid onto his favorite ship, and to his surprise she took his hand and climbed onboard, and he gave her the full tour. He kept talking mindlessly just to keep her there. He couldn’t quite read her. Estrid projected a confusing mixture of excitement, coldness and playful anger, of push and pull, and Erik tip-toed around her as if she were a beautiful snake. When they reached the bow, Erik found himself with his back facing the prow that rose high into a mighty wolf head. Estrid walked up to him then, cupped his face and kissed him, pressing them both against the high stempost where the prow gave them cover. </p><p>And Erik felt his will shatter. Soon his hands were all over her, needing her like he never imagined he could. He lifted her skirts, dropped onto his knees, raised her thigh onto his shoulder and buried his face into her most private place. Estrid braced herself against the innards of the bow, and Erik probed her with his tong, with his fingers, until she fell apart under his pressing care. </p><p>Erik stepped back then, and Estrid straightened down the fabric of her skirts. Her cheeks were flushed, her gaze a little wild. She closed her eyes to shake off the moment. Then she laughed, a bit uncomfortably.</p><p>“You plundered me…” she said, with a smirk.</p><p>“Huh?” Blood was pulsing in Erik’s ears. He looked Estrid up and down, feeling completely lost.</p><p>“Isn’t that what Vikings do? Take what’s not theirs and claim it as their own?”</p><p>There it was again. That sharp edge. And, foolishly, Erik threw himself at it.</p><p>“Es…” he sighed. “Come with me… Leave with me...” he blurted out, and he knew that was an insane thing to ask.</p><p>Estrid stared at him. “You’re serious there… You’re actually serious. Do you hear yourself?” </p><p>Erik looked down. “I know. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I’m sorry too,” she said more softly. She shook her head. “You can’t just come here like that, Erik.” </p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>“My life is full. There is no place for you. You made sure of that...” </p><p>Erik said nothing. </p><p>“Take your brother, take your ships and your warriors, and leave. And forget about me. And I’ll do the same.”</p><p>“I could never forget you…” he said.</p><p>“But you’ll try, because I’m asking you to.”</p><p>“And Leif?” Erik asked. </p><p>Estrid snapped. “You leave his name out of your mouth.”</p><p>“He deserves none of this…”</p><p>She glared. “This is not your concern. I will deal with my husband how I see fit. It’s my guilt to live with. My mistake.”</p><p>“A mistake…” The word left a bitter taste in Erik’s mouth.</p><p>“Goodbye, Erik,” she said, too firmly. Estrid climbed off the ship and walked away without turning back, and Erik let her. </p><p>The Thurgilsons sailed off the very next day. It had been a mistake indeed, Erik knew. Sigefrid took a good look at his brother, brooding at the prowl, facing away from the settlement. </p><p>He slapped Erik’s back warmly, with his good hand. “Brother, it’s time we find you a wife.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>These events took place in 884, one year after Uhtred severed Sigefrid’s hand when he attacked the brothers’ camp in Nurthumbria, and two years before they captured Beamfleot and then Lunden in East Anglia.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rollo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter is not particularly gruesome, triggering, toxic or depressing. Go me!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the summer of 873, earl Knud and his men laid camp on the coast of Frankia in the lower portion on the Seine. They’d joined forces with a Danish war band led by Rollo, a young man eager to make a name for himself. There was enough wealth going around Frankia for Norse and Danish Vikings to be allies. Decades of conflicts among the heirs to the Frankish throne had created the perfect storm for Vikings to raid, plunder, claim land and establish settlements along the North Sea. The men from the North unleashed terror on the locals, eager to carve out a viable kingdom for those who followed the old goods.  </p><p>Rollo was an impressive man. Taller than most by about a head, built like a rock, savage in battle but charming and cheeky. He’d regularly kill his horse from sheer exhaustion, and his warriors had sarcastically nicknamed him the Walker. Rollo wore it on his sleeve. His father and brother had been trialed and killed by the King of Danemark for raiding. Rollo, who was younger, was banned. His real name was Hrólfr Ragnvaldsson, but he’d shed it a few years back because it tripped up the locals’ tongs. He went by Rollo, or Rollon. He’d even respond to Rhou. Whatever worked, as long as the name made the Franks cower in fear. At 23, Sigefrid was roughly the same age at Rollo, and he worshipped the grass Rollo stepped on. </p><p>As Knud’s shipmaster, Sigefrid was entitled to his own tent, which he shared with Erik out of habit. Dagfinn had turned 16, and he served on Sigefrid’s ship. He shared a tent with other warriors, but he still gravitated closely around Erik, who looked out for him. Bjørn and Holga, who was with child, had chosen to remain in Dyflin. </p><p>When summer turned to fall, Knud announced that his fleet would sail all the way to Angers, leaving the women, children and servants behind at the camp. Frankish King Charles the Bald had been laying siege on Angers for over a year, eager to dislodge a pesky group of Danish Vikings who’d settled in Brittany but seemed hell-bent on expanding into the area. With their combined presence, Rollo and Knud meant to pressure the king into an agreement, hoping to trade silver against the lives of the men trapped inside.  </p><p>In response to the news, Erik and Sigefrid went from tent to tent, ordering their men to prepare for the campaign ahead. Dagfinn came to find the brothers. He announced that he’d brushed and fed their horses, and that he was taking his leave for the night. </p><p>“I guess your stray dog has its purpose…” Sigefrid recognized to Erik, loudly enough for Dagfinn to hear. </p><p>Erik scolded him a bit. “Sigefrid, he’s a good kid. He’s not scared of a fight.”</p><p>“He’s not the sharpest axe in the smith’s shop, though,” Sigefrid snickered. </p><p>“Cause you’re so clever!” </p><p>“I choose not to think, Erik! That’s different,” Sigefrid cheered. “Speaking of which, I need your help…” </p><p>Erik sighed. “What have you done?”</p><p> “I made a bet…” Sigefrid pinched his lips. “I bet with Rollo that I could convince Dagfinn to give his arm rings to the forest elves.”</p><p>Erik snorted. “How drunk were you?!”</p><p>“I never bet sobber.”</p><p>“And… what… did you bet?” Erik wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.</p><p>“The knife…” Sigefrid looked down.</p><p>Erik closed his eyes, biting his lip. “Great grand-grandpas’ knife,” he nodded. </p><p>“Huh huh…”</p><p>“Mother’s probably cursing your arse from Fólkvangr right now…”</p><p>Sigefrid laughed nervously. “Shhhhhh… leave mother out of this…!” </p><p> </p><p>Within a week’s time, the fleet was scheduled to depart. Knud’s men rose early, as planned. The earl was about to order his warriors to board their ships, when Rollo stumbled out of his tent, dishevelled and stinking of ale.  </p><p>“Your men are not ready,” Knud told him, curtly.</p><p>“They will be within the hour,” Rollo rolled his eyes. “Those men have been trapped in there for over a year. What’s a few more hours?”</p><p>“Very well,” Knud said, with a condescending tone. “A safe journey to you and your men.” </p><p>“Sail well,” Rollo nodded. </p><p>Once Knud had put some distance between them, Rollo grumbled to Sigefrid, who was nearby. “Does he always have such a giant stick stuck up his arse?”</p><p>Sigefrid cheered, tickled pink. “He does!! Sometimes you can see the tip of it when he talks.” </p><p>Rollo snickered, “If we reached far enough from each end, we could roast him like a pig!!”</p><p>Sigefrid retorted, “I wonder what that’d taste like… Bitter. And leathery…”</p><p>Rollo tripled down, “another good reason to soak him in ale!!! Boy does the man need ale…”</p><p>Erik grabbed his brother by the arm, pulling him away from Rollo’s boisterous laughter. </p><p>“Ship’s ready,” he said, simply. </p><p>After he’d freshened up and grabbed a bite, Rollo sent the order for his warriors to start packing their ships. By mid-afternoon, half his fleet was on its way.</p><p> </p><p>The journey was rough. It took Knud’s men 6 days to sail around the coast of Brittany, battling choppy sea water, and another to sail up the Loire river toward Anger. Rollo’s fleet never caught up with them. </p><p>By the time Knud approached Angers, the men were spent. Knud ordered to anchor the ships downriver from the point where the Maine river, a tributary that flowed from Angers, joined the Loire. There, at a safe distance from the siege, Knud waited for Rollo’s ships and for his own scouts to bring back news from the siege.</p><p>The scouts’ news were grim. Off the Maine was a small lake whose beach was littered with an entire fleet of Viking ships, burned beyond repair. Upriver, the Frankish troops blocked the Maine with their own fleet, and the bulk of their army was solidly entrenched at a strategic high ground. More worryingly, King Charles’s banners were floating high from within the fortress that overlooked the river. The scouts had estimated approximated 2000 Frankish men outside the walls, and assumed more were inside. </p><p>Knud’s men were greatly outnumbered, poorly positioned, and they’d arrived too late. The siege had succeeded, the Northmen slaughtered by the Carolingian king. Knud figured it was best to let his men rest and wait for Rollo, before sailing back on the rough seas. He barked a few orders at his highest-ranking men, who began to set up for the night. </p><p>They’d been anchored for several hours when, just before dusk, a dozen cavaliers appeared along the flat horizon line, riding from inland toward the river bank. Ahead of the party, a large man rode on a beast that seemed about to collapse from under his weight. It was Rollo. </p><p>Knud was utterly confused. Rollo got off his half-dead horse and cheered.</p><p>“There you are!!! What took you so long?!”</p><p>Knud stared at him, wildly confused. “How did you… get here?” </p><p>“We’ve been here for days! It’s over…”</p><p>“It appears so,” Knud said, grimly.</p><p>“No, it’s done!” Rollo cheered. </p><p>Knud felt as if he was drunk. </p><p>Rollo explained, excitedly. “We got sick of waiting for you!! So we beached our ships upstream, we spread out, and we marched our men onto the siege. Charles agreed to talk. He’s not even that bald!” Rollo chuckled. “So, we set up a tent to negotiate, they pulled Haesten from out of there. Knud, you gotta meet Haesten!”</p><p>Rollo continued, “Anyways, I offered the silver, Charles asked for more, Haesten agreed to chip in, bla, bla, bla and eventually Charles agreed to let the Danes out of Angers, unharmed. The king is in there now,” Rollo pointed toward the fortress. “Haesten’s men are with us, a few hours upriver. They’re a bit starved, but well!” </p><p>Knud’s mind imploded, slowly. “How… did you get… here?”</p><p>“We took the Mayenne!”</p><p>“The Maine…” Knud shook his head. “But… this is the Maine. WE took the Maine. Hours ahead of your fleet…”</p><p>“The Ma-Yenne,” Rollo corrected. “We sailed in-land. Like I told you? Take the Mayenne? I can’t believe you took the fucking Loire…” </p><p>Knud and his men had sailed around Brittany, fighting hard against the stormy waters of the Celtic sea, while Rollo’s fleet had made their way through a maze of local rivers they knew well, cruising leisurely through fertile Viking-held land.</p><p>Knud squeezed his eyes shut and for a moment he kept them closed. He let out a loud breath, summoning the strength not to gut the man. </p><p>“So, we sailed all the way here for nothing,” he said, his voice shaking a little.</p><p>“Not for nothing!” Rollo cheered, cheekily. “We could use more ships to fit Haesten’s troops. Charles burned down their entire fleet.” </p><p>Rollo pointed toward the ships graveyard the scouts had discovered upriver.</p><p>“And where do we sail them to, these men?” Knud asked, irritated. “Back to Brittany?”</p><p>“Back to our camp! They wish to join us…” Rollo said, casually. “King Salomon abandoned them to rot in there…”</p><p>It appeared that Haesten’s alliance with the King of Brittany against the Franks had not survived the long siege. Salomon may have welcomed the opportunity to shake off a dangerous ally.</p><p>Rollo added, for good measure. “Aaaannd you owe me your share of the ransom!” </p><p>Knud bit his tong. The boy still needed to learn, he told himself. And they had gained many good warriors out of this operation. Haesten’s men were seasoned, their reputation well known. They’d raided from Rome to North Africa under renown Viking Björn Ironside. This was good, Knud told himself. They’d wasted sweat and food and time, but they were better off. He just needed to wait for the sting to pass. Keep the peace. Inform the men… </p><p>Knud took another deep breath. Then he instructed his shipmasters to break open the ale barrels. The bad-news ale, Sigefrid liked to call it. Assuming that King Charles would agree to unblock the Maine and let them sail passed Angers, they’d slowly take the Mayenne home the very next day, with Haesten’s army on board. </p><p> </p><p>Sailing back to camp was smooth and uneventful. Upon arrival, Knud, Rollo and Haesten put their men to work, making camp for the newly arrived warriors who’d survived the siege. The new arrivals were weakened but experienced, and Knud welcomed their presence, eager to infuse some maturity into this amateur shit-show.   </p><p>Erik was pleased to return to the relative comfort of the camp, after such a pointless expedition. One evening when the weather turned frosty, Erik was grabbing some dinner from the cooking quarters when he bumped into Dagfinn, who was heading back to his own tent. Erik greeted him warmly.</p><p>“Dagfinn!! How’s the elf rash?” </p><p>“Better,” the young man nodded. </p><p>“Did you burry the arm rings?” Erik inquired, lowering his voice.</p><p>Dagfinn nodded again. “Yeah, I did. I guess it worked. Thanks for the tip!” </p><p>“Where did you burry them, in the forest?” Erik asked, still whispering.</p><p>“Just a few paces into the woods, next to those raspberry bushes. Thought the elves might like to find them there, by the raspberries,” Dagfinn said, bright eyed.</p><p>“Good thinking!” Erik patted Dagfinn’s back. </p><p>He sat with a bowl of stew by one of the cooking camp fires, giggling to himself. He shed off his coat, warmed up by the heat of the flames. </p><p>Clothilde, a Frankish blond who’d recently jointed their camp, approached Erik from behind, grabbed his shoulders and startled him. </p><p>“Elf rash?” she exclaimed, leaning in. “So that’s what the nettles were for?!”</p><p>“Shhhhh!!” Erik urged her, still laughing. </p><p>“I see!” Clothilde slumped gracefully next to Erik, brought her face close to his and scrunched up her nose. “And how do you hope to buy my silence?”</p><p>“Extorsion!!” he gasped, faking outrage. “What do you want from me, woman?”</p><p>Clothilde whispered in his ear, playfully. “You… could start by booting your brother out of your tent…?”</p><p>“I’ll see what I can do about that,” Erik said, with a smug smile.</p><p>Out of nowhere, Sigefrid kind of stumbled on top Erik, in a mad rush.</p><p>“Erik, hide me…” he whispered loudly. “Tell her I’m not here!!”</p><p>Sigefrid grabbed Erik’s long coat that was just lying there, wrapped himself in it and crouched in the shadows behind his brother. </p><p>Clothilde stood up, unimpressed. Erik mouthed, “sorry!” in her direction and she rolled her eyes and left to rejoin her own quarters.</p><p>Seconds later, Tove made a bee line for Erik. She was a young, petite brunette, almost as tall as Sigefrid’s shoulder. </p><p>“Have you seen your brother?” she asked him, in her usual curt tone. Erik shook his head from side to side and she continued her quest. </p><p>Erik waited until Tove was out of earshot, then he twisted himself toward Sigefrid, still crouching under the coat. </p><p>“You’re humping Rollo’s sister!!” he laughed. “Does he know?” </p><p>“It was his idea…” Sigefrid shrugged. He sat up next to Erik around the camp fire but did not dare to shed the coat off.</p><p>Tove was only Rollo’s half-sister, born from one of his father’s servants. Rollo’s own mother had hated the girl. She was not much of a bargaining chip, in terms of marriageability, but her and Rollo were close. She was known to be a tough nut to crack. Rumour had it that she ran most of Rollo’s operations while her brother drank himself silly. </p><p>Erik smirked. “How does she r…”</p><p>“I’m tapped out, Erik!!!” Sigefrid cut his brother off. “I’m jizzing dust! It hurts…” he added. </p><p>Erik laughed so hard it took him several minutes to regain enough of his composure to be able to speak. </p><p>“Can’t you just take a night off?” Erik asked, wiping tears off his eyes. </p><p>“She’s very persuasive…” Sigefrid preferred to leave it at that.</p><p>“I see,” Erik said, still chuckling. “Here, have some water…” </p><p>“I need to rest. Badly. I’ll call it in early tonight,” Sigefrid sighed.</p><p>“A very reasonable choice for a Dutiful Shipmaster…” Erik cheered, in a singsongy voice.</p><p>“NOOOO!!!” Sigefrid roared. “If you add that bit to your bloody shipmaster song, I swear I’ll cut your teeth out!”</p><p>“You bastard!!” Erik cried out. “I just saved the knife from your stupid bet!” He added, knowingly, “raspberry bush.”</p><p>Sigefrid nodded. “Huh. Thanks!” </p><p>“So, you don’t like my song?” Erik teased.</p><p>“I’ve heard some of the men sing it…” he growled. “What does a shipmaster need to do to earn his crew’s respect?”</p><p>“What, indeed!”</p><p>Sigefrid snarled. “Stop undermining me, brother.” He looked around, suddenly noticing something. “Hey, where did Clothilde go?”</p><p>Erik gave him the stare. </p><p>“Oh. Sorry about that.” He smirked. “If you want, Tove’s…”</p><p>“I’m fine.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I would like to dedicate this chapter to all the trainwreck group projects I’ve ever suffered through.</p><p>It is well known that elf-rash is usually cured by bribing the little pests with silver, preferably in jewelry form (fine, Erik made that up). Also, I'm a maniac: I verified that autumn raspberries grow well in Normandy until the first frost. I care, ok??!</p><p>If you're curious, here's a little bit about Rollo, who's a real historical character:<br/>https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rollo</p><p>He played a big part in settling France's Normandie with... Northmen ;)<br/>But that comes later. When he meets Knud in 873, he's young and just getting started.</p><p>Oh, and here's about historical Haesten/Hastein, who also existed. He truly raided along the Mediterranean with Björn Ironside, and he truly was besieged in Angers in 872-873 by Charles the Bald and got to live (and eventually plunder England).<br/>https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hastein</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Nine-Lives Viking</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That winter, the Thurgilsons welcomed Haesten into their inner circles. They did not exactly trust the guy per se. Maybe it was the way he never seemed to fully mean what came out of his mouth, like he always played both sides at once with a hefty dose of cynicism. But Erik and Sigefrid felt that Haesten was someone to be reckoned with. At 28, Haesten was an experienced commander in his own right, with his own men and crew, though he’d lost his ships in the siege. He’d lost a bunch of weight too, which he regained at a steady rate once he’d integrated Rollo and Knud’s camp.</p><p>There was a certain comfort found standing behind men like Knud and Rollo. Despite his own status and reputation, Haesten seemed comfortable taking a back seat to their operation. The loud ones were often toppled first, Erik thought, and Haesten struck him as the kind of man who wasn’t easily toppled. </p><p>He kept his cards close to his chest too, enjoying the wild gossip about his past deeds that spread through the camp like wild fire. Haesten did not really bother with setting the record straight, but after many ale-fueled nights, the brothers managed to get details out of him that seemed as close to the truth as they could hope for. </p><p>“What is Björn Ironside like?” Erik asked him one night while they drank by Haesten’s tent. Haesten had made a name for himself under the renown Viking chieftain, raiding on both sides of the Mediterranean, from southern Frankia to Rome and then from Iberia to the north-African caliphates. As a son of Ragnar Lodbrok, Björn was more legend than man.</p><p>“He’s a savage one. Lodbroks….” Haesten shrugged, and Erik nodded knowingly. Something mischievous sparked in Haesten’s eye then, and he smiled a thin smile. “He gets pissy if you mention his brothers…” </p><p>Sigefrid cheered, “you need to beat brothers into obedience before they grow tall! Put fear into their heart…” </p><p>Erik was getting tipsy, but he was still precise. He threw a piece of hard bread at Sigefrid’s head, which hit its target. “Ow…”</p><p>Sigefrid grabbed Erik in a head lock, in retaliation, then he turned to Haesten and asked, curious. “Did you truly rise from the grave?”</p><p>Haesten laughed a big hearty laugh. He kept it at that, until more ale coursed through his blood stream. Then, when he felt that he’d captured the crowd’s attention, he could not resist telling the tale anymore. After all, it was his best story. </p><p>“That was quite a few years back!” he stretched nonchalantly. “My men and I sailed to Luna. A lesser city. We were lost,” he snickered. “We thought we were approaching Rome!”</p><p>“Luna is fortified by high Roman walls. Well-guarded walls. It would have been stupid to attack from the outside, but those people looooove to pray. Churches everywhere. Rich ones!” Haesten let that sink in for a minute. </p><p>“Sooooooo… my men put on some robes we’d taken from a monastery… A long story,” he waved it off. “We put on the robes, and I pretend to be dying.” He smiled slyly. “My men knocked at the gates, and I begged to be baptised. As a last wish,” he winked.</p><p>Sigefrid snickered. He was pacing around the camp fire, excitedly.</p><p>“The fools opened their gates as wide as a whore’s legs, and they led our very pious procession to their biggest church. My men carried me on a stretcher,” he smirked. “Their priests did their thing, I moaned a lot.” He tilted his head playfully and gestured, “I pretended to croak.” </p><p>“The priests prayed again, my men pretended to weep on my corpse… And when I sat up, we all pulled our knifes from under our silly robes and we sacked the place!!!” Haesten’s eyes shone bright.</p><p>Sigefrid was riveted. Erik still wasn’t sure he bought it, but he enjoyed the tale nonetheless. Haesten continued. </p><p>“The church was packed with silver! Packed!!” Haesten cheered. “Here,” he showed Sigefrid, pulling pendants hung on a single strip of leather tied around his neck. “I got 12 silver crucifixes out of it!”</p><p>“They’re all hacked off!” Sigefrid laughed. </p><p>“Some of us need to pay to have a woman,” Haesten protested, sarcastically. </p><p>Sigefrid chuckled. He approached Erik from behind, cupped his face and squished his cheeks together. “Life is not fair. Not everyone is born with that face!!” he teased.</p><p>Erik shoved Sigefrid off, and pointed at his brother with his thumb. “You really think I’m getting any action with that tent mate?”</p><p>"Why don't you get your own tent?" Haesten asked.</p><p>"Sigefrid's afraid in the dark," Erik replied, straight-faced. He heard a whoosh sound fly past his ear as he dodged Sigefrid's incoming cup.</p><p>Haesten laughed, and Sigefrid sat down next to him, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. “Rollo would love to hear your story,” he told him. </p><p>Of course he would, Erik thought, rolling his eyes. Rollo loved good stories. He loved making them up, too. He often sacrificed the truth for a good punchline. He’d probably pass this one as his own as soon as he knew he could get away with it.    </p><p>Abigall walked by with a few of her companions, most likely on their way to fix Knud’s meal. Knud liked to eat late, once the work was done. Haesten gawked at her without any shame or subtlety, turning his head and shoulders to face her as she advanced, tall and graceful. Haesten seemed minded to get up and approach her, but Sigefrid grabbed his arm, pulling him to sit back down. </p><p>“No!! Sit with me,” he ordered him. “You don’t want to do that…” he added.</p><p>Haesten gave him a sly smile. “What’s the harm? I have eyes, she’s nice to look at…” </p><p>“She’ll get you hung, you fool!” Sigefrid laughed. “Bitch’s got a tong. And Knud worships her arse…” </p><p>“It is a bad idea,” Erik agreed.</p><p>Haesten nodded. He was horny, but he wasn’t stupid. </p><p>“So… where does one find a proper hump in this place?” he asked.</p><p>Sigefrid patted his back. “Depends. Are you man enough for Tove?” he asked, mysteriously.</p><p>Turned out Haesten was not. He lasted about a weak before Tove traded him for a younger model, but Sigefrid was grateful for the respite nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>Winter in the camp was mostly a time to rest, regather and prepare for the spring raids. Warriors often found themselves idle, but Sigefrid and Rollo never seemed to run out of ideas to pass the time. </p><p>They’d invented a game of combat with an elaborate points system, where ranked warriors faced each other and rolled a dice that determined their handicap, whether it was a blindfold or a tied arm or bare feet or two tied legs. The betting was the best part. Men typically faced one another with training swords made of wood, unless ale got the best of their judgement. Ale intake was also factored into the handicap. Injuries were frequent, but the game was an instant hit, and the men played it often. </p><p>That night, Sigefrid, who ranked high on the score board, rolled the dies that determined his immediate fate: blindfold. Rollo, who throned at the very top of the rankings, was his opponent, and his handicap was a tied left hand. Rollo was right-handed. </p><p>“That’s a rotten fight,” Haesten whined. “Nobody will bet on that…” </p><p>“Can we even it out with ale?” Erik suggested, and Rollo, who was a good sport, agreed to it. He downed five large cups of ale, one after the other, let out a large burp, then he walked up toward the middle of the square. Erik tied his left hand tightly against his body with a rope. Real tight. </p><p>Dagfinn, whose honourable reputation was never questioned, put the blindfold on Sigefrid. Each fighter was given a wooden sword. Haesten accepted a couple of last-minute bets, then a horn was blown and the fight began. </p><p>“To first blood!” Erik yelled cheerfully. </p><p>Sigefrid figured he might as well go nuts rather than wait to get beat up. He charged in Rollo’s general direction, swatting air with his sword from left to right with broad swipes. Rollo just swivelled out of the way. Sigefrid, still swatting, bulldozed his way through the crowd that parted as he charged. His feet tripped on a log and he fell on his face, inches away from a camp fire. Rollo watched in awe, laughing so hard that he fell on his knees, out of breath. Then the hiccups hit him, and then the ale came rushing out, dragging his dinner along with it and spilling onto the grass. </p><p>“It’s a draw!!!” Haesten bellowed. The crowed emitted a mixture of cheers and boos. Rollo wiped the vomit from his mouth with his sleeve. He grabbed Sigefrid, who’d removed the blindfold, and hugged his shoulders with his free hand. </p><p>They stood side by side on the edge of the square, awaiting the next fight. Without even looking at each other, they broke into a song they’d made up, which was mainly a toneless series of obscenities about different women from the camp. Sigefrid and Rollo had transcended reality to joint their own little universe.</p><p>Once they'd finished their song, Sigefrid left Rollo to get himself a cup of ale, and he found his brother. Erik pinched his lips. “You’re really insufferable together, you know that?” </p><p>“What, you don’t like Rollo?” Sigefrid asked, amused by his brother’s irritation.</p><p> “I can manage you,” Erik sighed. “I don’t think I can handle…” he gestured toward Sigefrid and Rollo’s general direction, “whatever that is.”</p><p>“You are jeaaaaloooooous…!” Sigefrid teased.</p><p>But Erik was fed up. “I don’t know. It’s hard to get through to you when he’s around.”</p><p>“Awww!” Sigefrid patted his brother’s shoulder, “don’t worry Erik, you’ll always be my favorite brother.”</p><p>Erik scrunched up his face. “Can we trade brothers?”</p><p>“Haha, never! I got the good one...”</p><p> </p><p>Through the next spring and summer, Sigefrid’s bromance with Rollo only intensified, and Erik endured it as best he could. Most nights, Sigefrid and Rollo drank together with his retainers, usually late into the night. Sigefrid would report late for duty, he’d neglect the men and the ship. Erik picked up all his slack, and he tried to cover for him, but eventually he ran out of patience with his brother. </p><p>They’d been ordered to patrol the coast to Brittany for a few days, and Erik ordered their men to prepare themselves and the ship to be ready to sail. When it was time to leave, Sigefrid was nowhere to be found. Erik waited on the boat with the men for about an hour. When Sigefrid failed to report, Erik headed back to the camp and he walked straight into Rollo’s tent. </p><p>Sigefrid was asleep on a cot, lying naked, a woman on each side. Rollo was sleeping in his own bed that was just as crowded. </p><p>Erik grabbed Sigefrid and shook him to wake him up. Sigefrid swatted the air in drunken confusion. Erik pulled him onto his feet, exasperated. </p><p>“Get up. Your men are ready. We’ve all been waiting.”</p><p>“Arrrgh…” Sigefrid growl. “Just give me a moment, will you?”</p><p>“Hurry.”</p><p>“Erik, cut the man a break!” Rollo cheered. “Here, have some ale!”</p><p>“My brother is needed,” Erik said, curtly. </p><p>Sigefrid stumbled out of Rollo’s tent, several minutes later, his armour and hair in disarray, his sword belt hanging loosely. </p><p>“You shamed me,” Sigefrid growled at Erik, furious. </p><p>“You shame yourself,” Erik snapped. “Constantly.”</p><p>Sigefrid squinted. “What did you say?”</p><p>“You heard me.” Erik was in no mood to mince his words. “You need to start acting like a shipmaster.”</p><p>“Or else?” Sigefrid asked, menacingly. “What will you do, tiny cock? Spank me?!” he spat out.</p><p>Erik had had enough. “What I’ll do, arsehole, is walk into Knud’s tent, right this moment, and ask for my own ship. Maybe he’ll give me yours.”</p><p>Sigefrid grabbed Erik’s armour with both hands and pulled Erik’s face inches from his, jaw clenched, eyes squinting. </p><p>“Do that,” Sigefrid growled, “and I’ll kill you.”</p><p>Erik stared, tense but unflinching. </p><p>“Go ahead,” he said, calmly. </p><p>Sigefrid held his grip for a moment, his knuckles turning white from pressure. He breathed into Erik’s face, roared at him, and threw him backward with his fists. Erik landed on his feet, wobbling. Sigefrid turned around and took his rage on a row of shields that were placed neatly against a tree, throwing and kicking them around like a raging beast. </p><p>Erik stared until Sigefrid began to run out of steam. “Get your shit together,” he spat out. “I’m taking the ship out today. I’ll tell the men you came down with something.” </p><p>Sigefrid watched his brother leave, wild eyed. </p><p>When Erik returned with the crew three days later, he was anxious to discover in what state of rage or inebriety he’d find his brother. He hadn’t seen Sigefrid sober in weeks, he’d realized. He sighed heavily, gave orders, and jumped onto the quay from the anchored ship. He slowly made his way through the camp, and stood outside their tent for a moment.</p><p>Erik found Sigefrid inside, alone. His beard was groomed, his armour clean, his eyes clear. For once, he was sober. Sigefrid nodded to greet Erik as he walked inside. He’d raged for a few days, that’s true. Cursed his brother’s head. Definitely broken stuff. The brass mirror they used for grooming had a strange bent to it, Erik noticed. </p><p>But Sigefrid knew, of course, that Erik was right. That he’d lost track of the big picture, caught up in Rollo’s hype. Deep down, Sigefrid was grateful for the wakeup call. He had to put Erik first, that had always been their way forward. They worked best together, with Erik’s instincts fueled by his appetite. He just wasn’t going to admit it openly, for fear Erik might get too smug.  </p><p>“Hi,” Erik said, a bit apprehensive.  </p><p>Sigefrid flashed him a broad smile. He picked Erik up in a bear hug and squeezed him way too tight. </p><p>“Are you apologizing?” Erik asked.</p><p>“For what?” Sigefrid smirked. </p><p>“Well… you called me tiny cock!” Erik burst out laughing.</p><p>Sigefrid shared his laugh. “It suits you!” he cheered.</p><p> Erik shook his head. “You’re the absolute worst.”</p><p>“It took you twenty-one years to figure that one out, heh?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I had to fudge with Haesten’s age to make my story plausible while keeping it CC with the TV show. In real life, Jeppe Beck Laursen is only a year older than Björn Bengtsson. </p><p>But in my backstory, by the time Haesten meets the brothers in 873 (when Erik is 20 and Sig is 23), real-life Haesten would have been raiding as a Viking commander since 859. If he had been 24 in 873 (Sig + 1, basically), he would have been 10 in 859. A bit young to lead an army…</p><p>So I compromised: I gave him 5 years older than Sig (he’d be about 40 in 886 in Beamfleot when the bros kidnap Aethelflaed), and 28 in 873 (Sig + 5). And I pushed the timeline during which real-life Haesten raided all over the Mediterranean with Bjorn Ironside forward (historically 859-862; unspecified in my timeline), and I crunched up his time wreaking havoc in Brittany and the Loire too (real timeline ~866-882; in my &amp; the show’s timeline, he was in Eoforwic with the brothers so he would have crossed the channel sooner). I hope that works!  </p><p>Source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hastein</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Road to Paris</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: guys, I tried to write a full-on battle (a first for me!). I ended up killing lots of people… Anyhow, shit gets real, and I hope I pulled it off... (I think I'm better a tits jokes than action, but then again I like to believe that I'm excellent at tits jokes! I'm just deep like that.)</p><p>But hey, I wrote my first battle, and I'm kind of proud!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the summer of 876, Knud and Rollo called an assembly under the big tent they used to plan their military operations. Around a large table sat Knud, Rollo, Tove, Haesten and a few high-ranking ship masters. Sigefrid sat between Knud and Rollo, and Erik stood behind him with other younger leaders for whom there was no space left to sit. </p><p>Rollo was hoping to attack Pîtres, which king Charles had equipped with a pesky fortified bridge that blocked the Seine and protected Paris from Viking fleets. A fortress overlooked the bridge, and it was typically well-manned by Charles’s cavalry. That bridge had been a thorn in Rollo and Knud’s side for some time, as they both had their eye on the city-island and its impressive wealth. </p><p>“We just need to attack with all our men,” Rollo insisted, with his big voice. “We need defenses that can hold just long enough to take the bridge down.” </p><p>“That requires planning,” Knud said. “Coordination.” </p><p>Coordination was not Rollo’s forte. He was more of a shock and awe type of guy, someone who followed his instincts in the moment. </p><p>Tove shook her head from side to side, and sided with Knud. “You cannot take the bridge without taking the fortress. It is too exposed. You will get skewered by their spears before you knock down the first stone.” </p><p>“It is just a bridge,” Rollo scorned. “We can take it down in a day. We just need our trenches to hold…”</p><p>“Pîtres is always packed with warriors…” Sigefrid protested. “We will lose many men.”</p><p>Rollo shot him an angry look. “Half of Charles’ army is busy fighting his brother,” he protested, addressing the table. “This is a good time. Knud, this is our chance. You want Paris, don’t you?”</p><p>“It is too risky,” Tove objected. </p><p>Erik spoke up. “Why not take Rouen instead? It is right up…” </p><p>Tove cut him off, “Little Sigefrid has a point.” </p><p>Sigefrid corrected her. “It's Erik.”</p><p>Tove stuck a hand up to shush Sigefrid  up. “The Franks have practically abandoned Rouen. It has a fortress on the Seine, just upriver from here. We can grow strong from there. When we’re ready, we build our attack against Pîtres. And then Paris. Rouen is the next step.”</p><p>Rollo snapped. “Rouen has been sacked for years! There is no wealth left there… It is a waste of men. A waste of time.” He looked around the table and growled. “It is just a bridge! How many men does it take to destroy one single bridge?!” </p><p>“Let us hear your plan, then,” Knud said.   </p><p>“Should we bring palisades?” Rollo proposed. “We could sail with some pre-built walls, and use them for cover while we take the bridge down.”</p><p>Tove shook her head again. “You need to control the fortress.”</p><p>“A siege, then?” Rollo snapped, exasperated. </p><p>“A siege takes planning. And discipline.” Knud put some emphasis on the last word. </p><p>“What if we smoke the ramparts,” Haesten pitched in.</p><p>“What if the wind turns?” Sigefrid objected. </p><p>“Whaaaat…” Haesten paused for a moment, “if we pretend it’s a siege?”</p><p> “Huh?” Rollo was confused, along with everyone else.</p><p>Haesten explained. “We could surround the fortress with our combined forces, trap the Franks in there. And when darkness comes, we bring your palisades by ship” he pointed at Rollo, “and we set them upright to give us cover.” </p><p>Tove perked up. “Yes! Then they won’t lead charges from the fortress while we hack at the bridge. And the palisades will block the arrows and spears. This…” she looked at Haesten, impressed, “is a good plan.” Haesten felt himself blushing. </p><p>Tove then turned to her brother, “and that’s how you take a bridge down.”</p><p>Knud nodded, silently. </p><p>“Then it is what we do,” Rollo agreed. </p><p> </p><p>For the next few weeks, the camp was abuzz with preparations. Carpenters put together palisades, and boats were loaded with food, weapons and tools to take the bridge down. Knud, Haesten and Rollo went over the minutia of their plan several times, as timing was of the essence. Tove rarely joined campaigns, preferring to stay back to man the camp, but she helped coordinate much of the logistics.</p><p>On D-day, all rose early and reasonably sober, and the fleets were ready to depart a few hours after dawn. Knud’s fleet of 28 ships departed first, followed closely by Rollo’s 35. Haesten and his men were split between Knud and Rollo’s ships. Rollo’s carried the palisades. The extra weight slowed them down as they rowed upriver, and soon they were out of sight from Knud’s ships. This was all according to plan, somewhat. The last few ships that carried the palisades were to remain out of Frankish sight until nighttime. </p><p>Knud’s fleet made good time, and the earl anchored his ships downriver from the Pîtres bridge, at a reasonable distance, waiting for Rollo to catch up. A few hours went by, and Knud became nervous. The bulk of Rollo’s ships should have arrived by then.</p><p>“Scouts… over there,” Haesten noticed. </p><p>A few Frankish men were watching the Northmen from a distance, and now they were probably heading back to the fortress to warn the others. </p><p>“So much for surprise,” Knud snarled. </p><p>If the Frankish cavalry were to trap them in their current position, the Vikings would lose the ground and be forced to sail away, tail between their legs. </p><p>Knud made a decision. He ordered his warriors to march and spread out so they’d block the fortress’ northern gate, which faced away from the river side. It was risky, with less than half their numbers, roughly a thousand five hundred warriors, but he assumed that Rollo could not possibly be far behind. Soon, their numbers would swell sufficiently to deter the Franks from leaving their stronghold. </p><p>Knud’s men marched from the river bank, crew by crew, and they spread out wide. Sigefrid’s men carried Knud’s banner, a white owl on a triangular piece of red cloth. The troops settled into a line that faced the fortress’ gates, shields in front, archers and spearmen behind, and they waited for Rollo. </p><p>“Where is that arsehole?” Erik growled to Sigefrid. </p><p>Another hour passed without much happening. The sun was getting lower in the sky, when the fortress’ gates opened suddenly. </p><p>“Shield wall!” Knud yelled abruptly, standing in the middle of his men. </p><p>The order rippled as it spread sideways in each direction, picked up by the shipmasters who straightened up their respective crews. Erik stood to Sigefrid’s right, shield against shield, in the front row, next to their own crew men. Dagfinn stood behind Erik, raising his shield high to protect their heads. </p><p>“You’ve got this, Dagfinn,” he encouraged him. Erik felt comforted knowing that Dagfinn was there, steady and trustworthy. A wall was only ever as solid as its weakest link. </p><p>The men stood still. Out of the fortress gates, the Frankish cavalry came charging at the Vikings, around one-hundred riders in chain mail and helmets, shield and spear in hand. </p><p>“Spearmen, ready!!” Knud roared, and on his command, spears flew over their ranks, aiming at the beasts’ body. Five horses were struck, dragging their riders down with them. In the wall, warriors braced themselves for impact, digging their feet into the muddy ground.</p><p>“Steady, arseholes!!” Sigefrid bellowed to his men.</p><p>Most horses do not dare to charge a fully-formed shield wall. Horsemen rode along the length of the Viking wall, taking advantage of their high position to hurl their spears past the shields, taking men down from the back rows. Their goal was to create chaos, to weaken and eventually break the enemy’s line. Riders would charge, throw, pivot and then retreat again toward the fortress. Knud’s archers were quick to retaliate, taking easy shots at the riders’ exposed bodies. </p><p>While horsemen kept the attackers busy, several hundred mail-clad Frankish warriors came running out of the fortress, carrying shields, spears and swords. They formed their own shield wall, behind the cavalry. More warriors kept pouring out, thickening their ranks.</p><p>While the Frankish infantry assembled, a few daring horsemen rode in tight formation, spear forward, forming a tusk of sort that shoved its way through the Viking wall at its thinnest point where it was only three men deep. The assault succeeded in splitting Knud’s troops into two disjoint segments, and hooves trampled bones as riders pierced their way forward. </p><p>In the larger portion of the segmented shield wall, Sigefrid was waving his axe ferociously, delivering hard, deadly blows. To his right, Erik preferred to use his sax, short and pointy, handy for stabbing at a close range with speed and precision. Erik anticipated his brother’s every move, used to his rhythm. Sigefrid’s axe would come down crashing onto an enemy shield, and Erik would poke forward, exploiting cracks, finding openings, often causing more damage than his brother. Together, they were a deadly mixture of strength, savagery, timing and precision. They took about a dozen men down that way, holding strong, thinning the enemy’s wall while turning warriors into corpses. </p><p>While men fought on foot, wall against wall, Frankish horsemen rode around the smaller group of Viking warriors that had been separated from the rest, about one third of Knud’s men. Riders encircled them, cutting their retreat from behind and closing onto them. Foot soldiers were fast to spread and consolidate their trap around the Northmen, pressuring them from all directions. Soon, they were stuck. </p><p>“They’re done for!!!” Sigefrid bellowed in horror. Knud agreed. </p><p>The rest of the horsemen led another charge against the larger segment of Viking shield wall that remained free. </p><p>“Fall back! FALL BACK!!” Knud yelled. “Protect the SHIPS!!” </p><p>On his order, warriors withdrew in disarray, rushing toward the river to protect the fleet and safeguard their escape.</p><p>“Shield wall!! Shield wall!!” Knud yelled again. </p><p>“Shield wall or Valhalla, bitches!!” Sigefrid bellowed on top of him.</p><p>The Northmen locked shield against shield again, forming a deeper, more compact wall, about twenty feet from the river bank, their backs to the fleet. Most of the battle raged up ahead, where blood-curling screams could be heard over the clanging of metal on metal. Just enough Franks faced the river to prevent the remaining Northmen from rushing to free their trapped comrades, who were being slaughtered like sheep, stuck in a death trap a few hundred feet away. </p><p>When it became clear that their companions could not be helped, Knud ordered the evacuation of those who remained free, calling them crew by crew, ship by ship. </p><p>“Hold them!” Knud ordered Sigefrid. “Buy us time!” </p><p>As the banner holders, Sigefrid’s men were to remain last, protecting the others’ escape. Sigefrid nodded. He screamed to encourage his crew with uplifting words. </p><p>“Push, arseholes!! Push or we all die!!!” he screeched. </p><p>And his men held strong, shield against shield, keeping the Franks from storming the waterfront. Behind Sigefrid’s ranks, Haesten had gathered his archers on two ships, and they were raining hell on the Franks, keeping them at bay. </p><p>But as more men boarded ships, Sigefrid’s wall was slowly losing ground to the Franks, inch by inch. As the wall retreated, a spear stabbed Erik in the ankle, right under his shield. He let out a scream and dropped to his knees, then he rolled onto his side, pushing his shield up for cover while stabbing his way through Frankish feet with his sax.  Within seconds, Erik was swallowed up under the Frankish ranks, disappearing under a row of shields as warriors stepped over him to shove the Northmen back toward the river bank.</p><p>“Errrrriiiiiikkk!!” Sigefrid shouted. </p><p>He brought his axe down with redoubled furry, cracking a man’s skull through his helmet, then jiggled it to free the blade again. Within seconds, Dagfinn had come forward, shield in hand, to fill up Erik’s spot in the wall.</p><p>Sigefrid yelled to his men, “close behind me!!!” He let out a guttural war cry as he stepped out of rank, charging at the enemy like a bull. He slammed his shield and axe around indiscriminately, hacking his way through the Frankish wall, breeching through it with sheer savagery. Sigefrid kept swatting around, carving out enough space to look for his brother. At last, he saw Erik’s shield on the blood-splattered ground and found his brother underneath it.</p><p>Erik had miraculously been spared in the trampling. He was covered in blood and Sigefrid was unsure how much of it was his. He bled from the head a bit, and Sigefrid noticed the gashing cut to his ankle. He stood above Erik, high on adrenaline, covering them both with his shield and axe.</p><p>“Can you walk?” Sigefrid yelled. </p><p>“No,” Erik shook his head, looking pale and spooked. </p><p>"Did you shit yourself?!"</p><p>"Pretty sure that's mud. Or horseshit..."</p><p>Sigefrid threw his shield and he put his axe down. He pulled his long sword out its sheath and stuck it into the mud, or whatever that crap was. He grabbed Erik and pulled him up sideways, laying him across his shoulders. Then he picked up his sword again with his right hand, and his axe with his left hand. He stretched both arms out and started swivelling, both weapons drawn out, yelling loudly as he decimated his way through the Frankish army. The Franks broke rank to let Sigefrid pass, unwilling to face his unhinged fury. At last, the brothers were swallowed up by their own men’s shield wall, which closed around them. </p><p>Sigefrid snarled. “I did not drag your arse all the way to Frankia to watch you die, brother!” </p><p>He carried Erik, still on his shoulders, toward the last remaining ship that Haesten was manning, waddling through shallow water. He pushed his brother up toward Haesten who pulled Erik onboard. </p><p>Sigefrid put his sword back into its sheath, holding onto his axe, and he yelled for a shield that someone placed in his hand. He shoved his way back to the front of the Viking shield wall, which was still holding as it retreated. </p><p>Their crew was the last one to board, and the Franks were losing steam. Haesten ordered his spearmen to attack with everything they had to protect the retreat of Sigefrid’s crew. </p><p>“All aboard!!” Sigefrid barked at his men. “Every man boards the ship now!!!”</p><p>The men rushed toward the river, the crew pulling each other onboard, and the Franks made little effort to chase them, satisfied with the slaughter that was still taking place by the northern gate. </p><p>“Row, bastards, row!!” Sigefrid growled at his men. </p><p>The men pushed and pulled and grunted to put some distance between them and the river bank. At last, they were safe, sailing downriver from that cursed bridge they never got to touch. Sigefrid watched Erik whose injury was bleeding profusely, forming a pool of blood under the rower’s bench he was slouching on. </p><p>He snarled, “you’re spilling yourself all over my ship, brother. Keep that shit inside, will you?”  </p><p>Erik gave Sigefrid a weak smile, just before passing out. Sigefrid rushed to his brother's side to tend to his wound, barking at everyone in proximity for assistance. </p><p>“Where the fuck is Rollo?!!” Hasten snarled, shaking his head. He was limping from a spear he’d taken in the thigh. </p><p>Sigefrid’s ship caught up with Knud’s at some point down river. The earl was starring in the horizon with the expression of a man who might murder a bunch of kittens with his bare hands just for kicks. Sigefrid and Haesten left him alone.  </p><p>At last, one of Rollo’s ships, manned by his eldest shipmaster, sailed up to them from the other direction. </p><p>The shipmaster jumped aboard Knud’s ship, horrified by what he’d heard. Knud grabbed him by the collar, foaming at the mouth. </p><p>“Where IS HE?” he raged at the poor man. </p><p>“Downriver. We took Rouen,” the man muffled, awkwardly. “On the way…”</p><p>Knud released his grip on the man and said nothing more. </p><p>They sailed down the Seine and reached Rouen by sunset. Knud’s last few ships docked at the city’s quays. The earl jumped off ship and walked briskly toward the fortress from which Rollo’s banner, the fox, flew into the wind from the highest tower. </p><p> Sigefrid walked closely behind Knud, furious. “I’m going to pull his guts out by his nostrils!!!” he raged. </p><p>But Knud pressed a firm hand against Sigefrid’s chest. “He’s MINE!!” the earl raged. “Stay back OR ELSE,” he growled.</p><p>That stopped Sigefrid right in his track. He was entranced. Knud walked through the fortress’ doors and he found Rollo inside the courtyard, surrounded by several of Knud’s shipmasters. The scene was grim. Injured warriors were scattered everywhere, tending to their wounds. The place stank of shit and blood.</p><p>Knud made a bee line for Rollo, enraged. He slapped him across the ear, with all his strength. Rollo fell backward onto his arse, stunned.  </p><p>“I should kill you right now!!!” Knud yelled. “Five hundred warriors. Three hundred widows. By your own stupidity,” he spat. “Pick yourself up, you pathetic excuse for a man. We made the square.”  </p><p>“We were coming…” Rollo whined. “Just a quick stop on the way. Rouen barely defended itself, Knud. It was a rare opportunity!! The city is ours. We made great plunder. You’ll be richer for it...”</p><p>“Three hundred widows,” Knud snarled, unbudging. “Do not make me wait.”</p><p>Rollo’s men brought him his sword and shield, and warriors stepped back to clear up a square in the middle of the courtyard, giving the two opponents sufficient space to face each other. More warriors gathered, tensely awaiting a fight they weren’t sure they wanted to watch.</p><p>In the end, it wasn’t much of a fight at all. Knud was in a mad, precise rage that doubled his strength and speed. He was strong, he was lean, he did not waste a movement. He seemed everywhere at once. Rollo, meanwhile, was still dumbfounded by what had just happened, dizzied from the slap he’d received. He was slow, and soon he was on this back with the tip of Knud’s sword against his throat. </p><p>Knud pressed the weapon into Rollo’s flesh, slightly. But then he froze.</p><p>“Do it…” Rollo taunted him with a growl. “Just do it.”</p><p>And Knud wanted to. He ached for that pathetic, arrogant man-boy to pay for the mess he’d made. Loyal men, good men, tough men, brought together and trained, painstakingly, through years of gruesome work and sheer ambition. Men who’d followed him from Norway to Ireland, to Scotland and Frankia, men with dreams and families, slaughtered like sheep on a fool’s whim. Knud wanted to push his sword through the man’s throat and watch him die, and he knew that would have felt good. But he did not push.  </p><p>“You can’t,” Rollo laughed, defiantly. “You need me! You freaking can’t!”</p><p>For a moment, Knud did not budge, a vision of stone-cold righteous anger. </p><p>“You get to live with your shame. For now,” Knud said. Then he spat in Rollo’s face. </p><p>He kicked him in the gut a couple of times too, hard enough to make him shit blood. Then he left the man there to pick himself up. </p><p>Knud hadn’t pushed. He was weary, he realized. He’d grown his operations at such an impressive speed, building his army and his reputation out of thin air, with relentless work and monstrous ambition. And he was tired. Knud’s mind always thought three steps ahead. Ever since he’d been old enough for his father to take out his drunken rage on him and his mother. His mind just did that. And as he held his sword against Rollo’s throat, Knud sensed it. The effort that would have been required to reclaim Rollo’s army as his own, to quell rebellions, to earn loyalty and obedience, to watch his own back, to train these warriors to his liking. </p><p>He also tasted the grief and the resentment from his own men, from the orphans and widows that now filled up his camp. And as good as it would have felt to push his sword through Rollo’s throat, Knud knew he didn’t have that fight in him. So he let him live. </p><p>It also turned out that Rouen wasn’t completely tapped out after all, and Rollo was more than generous with Knud in sharing his plunder, eager to make amends. Rollo held no grudge. Knud gave most of what they’d earned to those left behind by his deceased warriors. To the men who wished it, Knud gave up his own ships to sail back to Norway with the slayed men’s kin. In the end, 10 ships departed, packed with the old and the injured, the young and the weeping. </p><p>Knud kept 14 war ships. He thought that was sufficient to reconsolidate and build anew. A leaner army. Younger. More focused. The warriors who stayed wintered in Rouen along with Rollo’s men, keeping each other safe and strong. </p><p>When spring came, news reached Frankia from across the sea. </p><p>“Ubba’s dead,” Knud announced to his shipmasters. </p><p>“And? Do you wish to avenge his Dane arse?!” Sigefrid teased. </p><p>Knud snickered at that. “We sail to Northumbria in a week’s time. Prepare your men,” he ordered.</p><p>Knud speculated that the fall of the Lodbrok brothers in the land of the Saxons would create a chance for other warlords to rise in the emerging kingdom the Northmen had carved out through years of warfare. And he was not one to pass on that opportunity. </p><p>And so, in the year 877, Knud’s fleet of 14 ships left the continent and sailed to Northumbria.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As I mentioned before, Rollo is a historical character. Unlike his portrayal in Vikings, he was definitely not Ragnar Lothbrok’s brother, having been born much later; he may not even have been born during the 845 siege of Paris (and he may have been from Norway rather than Denmark, although that remains unclear). Rollo/Rollon became a very successful war lord and ruler, bringing peace to what later became the duchy of Normandy. One of his descendants, Guillaume le Conquérant, invaded England and became its king in 1066; he’s an ancestor of Elizabeth II and the British Royal Family. </p><p>In the 870s, Rollo would have been very young (possibly in his teens or early twenties). He did lead an attack down the Seine to seize Rouen in 876, he officially ruled Normandy from 911 onward, and died an old man in 930. He was very successful, but I liked to imagine how he screwed up along the way before he found his footing as a commander. His conflict with Knud could have been a wake-up call, in that context (this is purely fictional: accounts of Rollo’s activities in Frankia before 876 are sparse to null, from the little bit I’ve read). </p><p>Anyways, I've had fun with this character, so I might bring him back in vol. 3 when the bros return to Frankia in 883! (by then, the bromance is over; Sig can hold a grudge when you mess with Erik)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Land of the Saxons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My apologies, this chapter is heavy on exposition... </p><p>By setting foot in Northumbria, my story now intersects with TLK cannon. I'm sticking to the show, but I dug into the books for additional context; for this portion of the story, Sigefrid from the show replaces Ivarr Ivarson from the books (the Lords of the North).   </p><p>I wanted to set the context and the main players right before the story continues to unravel. I hope it's not too dull!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the spring of 877, Earl Knud and his war band reached the coast of England, and discovered a land in turmoil. Out of the four Saxon kingdoms, the Danes controlled most of Northumbria and East Anglia, and a large swath of Mercia which they’d claimed through years of painstaking warfare and conquest. </p><p>But Danish England was recovering from the crushing defeat that king Alfred of Wessex had handed to the Great Heathen Army led by Ubba, who died in battle, and Guthrum, who had retreated to East Anglia. Several Danish earls, high ranking military leaders in their own right, were taken hostages by Alfred to safeguard Guthrum’s peace, leaving their troops and land in disarray. Local revolts against the Danish invaders were erupting with increasing frequency.</p><p>Upon arrival, Knud and his men set sail to East Anglia to meet Guthrum. That spring, Guthrum’s fleet had suffered heavy losses in a great storm, but while he licked his wounds, Guthrum still dreamed of Alfred’s crown. He spoke of Wessex’s fertile lands, of forming another great army of Danes and Norsemen that would rise from its ashes and be unstoppable. Soon this land would be theirs, he declared. All of it.</p><p>Knud listened and nodded, and then he took his fleet north. </p><p>“Why the bone?” Sigefrid wondered, as they departed. Guthrum wore a rib bone in his dark hair, a rather grim ornament. </p><p>“It is his mother’s rib…” Knud answered, straight-faced.</p><p>Sigefrid laughed, baffled. “Well, that is something! Bashing your dead mother’s bones in the face of all the women you…” </p><p>“That man is no king,” Knud cut him off. </p><p>“No?”</p><p>“He dreams big, but doubt clouds his judgement.”</p><p>“Guthrum the unlucky,” Sigefrid snickered.</p><p>Knud shook his head. “A man makes his own luck.”</p><p>The fleet sailed upriver along the Humber and the Ouse, and it eventually docked in Eoferwic, the fortified city of Northumbrian kings that had fallen into Danish hands over ten years prior. </p><p>On its throne sat Saxon king Ecbert, a puppet of the Danes who gave their rule some semblance of legitimacy to the locals. But behind Ecbert stood Ricsig, the true master of Eoferwic. Ricsig, a Danish lord of war, controlled the southern portion of Northumbria. </p><p>North of Eoferwic was the earl Kjartan, a cruel man who had grown rich from enslaving and then selling travellers who passed through his lands. It was known that Kjartan rarely left Dunholm, his Northern stronghold, supposedly spooked by an old blood feud. North of Kjartan, at the edge of Scotland, was Cumbraland to the west, and Bebbanburg to the East. Bebbanburg remained in Saxon hands, its lord hiding cowardly behind the walls of a fortress that was rumored never to have been taken. The Danes ignored him. And Cumbraland was forever at war. Its self-proclaimed king, the Dane Harthacnut, was stuck between the Saxons and the Britons, the savagery of the Scots of Strath Clota who attacked from the north, and the greed of the Irish Norsemen who raided from the West. </p><p>Knud was quick to swear allegiance to Ricsig of Eoferwic. He and his men settled in Synningthwait, a quick sail up the Ure from Eoferwic, where his army grew strong, recruiting many warriors from surviving Danish factions. Knud’s men collected the danegeld from local farms and villagers, and in exchange they offered stability and protection, pushing back against Kjartan’s ambushes and Scottish invasions. For a time, there was relative peace. </p><p>Northumbria was also at a point of convergence. The East and West Norse spoken by the Danes and Norsemen, and the Saxon’s own dialect, were mutually intelligible once one’s ear was attuned to it. Each tribe borrowed words from the others, to a point where their dialects became muddled, a phenomenon accelerated by intermarriage. Within months, Knud and his men began to speak just like the rest of them Northumbrian.</p><p>When the year turned, many Danes marched south to join Guthrum’s latest attack on Wessex, but Ricsig and Knud stayed north, taking advantage of the warrior drain to make aggressive land claims. </p><p>For a time, Guthrum’s campaign was successful, having forced king Alfred to hide in a swamp with his kin. However, once the warm weather returned, Guthrum’s luck turned again at the battle of Ethandun, where his army was badly defeated by the West Saxon fyrd. As part of his surrender, Guthrum was baptised, and he swore to rule East Anglia peacefully under his Christian name, Aethelstan. This slight to the old gods offended many Northmen who’d fought by his side, causing resentment that played to Eoferwic’s advantage.</p><p>While Dane warriors fought south and then came back decimated, the Scots were quick to push their invasions further inland. Knud and his men struggled to keep them at bay. Knud himself admitted that he was losing steam. As he was approaching 40, the earl was yearning for a slower life.</p><p>“I am getting too old for this,” he told Erik, one night. “If a war lord is not growing, then he might as well be dying.” </p><p>“You are to die an old man’s death!” Erik teased him. Over the years, him and Knud had become good friends. “Asleep in your own bed.”</p><p>“Abigall would not allow it,” Knud laughed. “But soon someone else should lead.”</p><p>“You should have made sons!” Erik teased him again. </p><p>He’d been wondering about that, for years. How someone like Knud, who liked to plan ahead, could have neglected to sire an heir.   </p><p>“Abigall…” Knud said again. “She did not wish for children,” he explained, as if that made any sense. </p><p>Men in Knud’s position were typically quick to bring in concubines, or even a second wife who could bear him children. “Danesche manere”, they called it, back in Frankia. Marriage, the Danish way. Erik gave him a puzzled look, and Knud felt a need to justify himself. </p><p>“She had a son once, in her youth. They took him from her.”</p><p>“Oh…” was all Erik could manage to say. This was, he realized, absolutely none of his business. </p><p>Knud chose to lighten the mood. “So, it appears that one of you arseholes will need to take command when I am gone!”</p><p>“Gone?!”</p><p>“Gone to raise sheep!” Knud laughed. “Or cows… I like the cows here. Fat cows. Maybe piglets?”</p><p>“Do you have anyone in mind?” Erik asked. “To take command. When you’ll be too occupied with your piglets?”</p><p>“I do,” Knud nodded. </p><p>“Haesten?” Erik asked.</p><p>“Haesten is a Dane,” Knud spat out. They both laughed.</p><p>“Sigefrid?” Erik tried again. </p><p>“That would be half of it,” Knud said, smiling knowingly. “He has passion. Appetite. He inspires men. But he’s in need of a head!!” Knud laughed. He pointed at Erik with his chin. “Just like you’re in need of a push.”</p><p>“Eh,” Erik chuckled. “Sigefrid is good at wanting things,” he agreed. Sigefrid had always wanted enough for the two of them. He wondered out loud, “you believe the men would follow?”</p><p>“If you give them something to fight for, most will.” Knud looked at Erik, with intent. “I would.”</p><p>Erik nodded without speaking. He took in Knud’s recognition, and did not shy away from it. Knud’s words rang true. He realised that taking command, leading the men, and imposing his vision, was something that he wanted. Something that he longed for. He’s just turned 25, and he felt ready. </p><p>In 879, Sigefrid marched half of Knud’s men across the hills, along the roman wall and into Cumbraland, where a conflict between self-proclaimed Danish king Harthacnut and self-proclaimed Scottish king Eochaid was breeding chaos. The Danes had attacked the Scots as a retaliation of sort, and the Scots had fought back with their usual furry. Eochaid’s men had killed Harthacnut in battle, and taken his son and heir, Guthred, into slavery. The Scots were now wreaking havoc, threatening Eoferwic’s peace to the East.</p><p>And so Sigefrid led his troops across the hills, and he took great joy in making these Scots choke on their own chaos. It felt like old times, when they would raid through Frankia, Ireland or Scotland without a care for politics or peace or long-term prosperity. Just Vikings doing their thing. Simpler times. These Scots were sick fucks, Sigefrid thought. They fought with savagery, unlike those meek, effeminate Saxons or those weird, pathetic Britons. Then again, he was as sick fuck too, and him and his men took great pleasure in shoving these Scots back into the arsehole they’d poured out of.</p><p>So Sigefrid fought the Scots, and then he took his men to raid through Cumbraland, which had been left in shambles. Just for old times’ sake. Just for kicks. There was beauty in a burning village, Sigefrid thought. Simple beauty. The redness and warmth of freshly spilled blood whose scent mixed with the smoke coming out of burning thatch roofs. The shrieking of women on their backs, the grunting of warriors over the clanging of metal against metal. It made him come alive, high on power. </p><p>While Sigefrid was letting lose to his little heart’s content, Erik, Knud and Haesten had remained south, maintaining Ricsig’s peace around Eoferwic. Ricsig had felt emboldened to push north into Kjartan’s territory, wishing to curb his rival’s ambitions. </p><p>Knud, Erik and Haesten had split some of their men into small war bands, marauding along Kjartan’s roads a short distance from each other. It was a more subtle way to travel the land than as a single, easily avoidable group. Kjartan’s men liked to travel in small packs, praying on helpless travellers who avoided the road tolls he used to fill up his coffers with silver. Those who were caught and could not pay would either be killed, whored or sold to the slavers. Knud enjoyed extracting Northumbrians who’d strayed from the man’s greedy claws. Kjartan and his creepy son disgusted him.</p><p>On the road, Knud’s group was riding ahead. All day, their parties came across fresh hoof traces from groups of riders that had preceded them, but they had yet to encounter any. The rode took a turn toward the west, and the early afternoon sun shone into their eyes as it was coming down from its apex. That’s when the arrows hit them, flying from the edge of the woods. Some of Knud’s men reached for their shield or sought cover behind their horse. </p><p>Erik’s group, who was not far behind, caught up with Knud’s, alerted by their screaming. By splitting their forces, they’d led their attackers to dangerously underestimate their numbers. Erik kicked his horse forward toward the trees, leading his men to charge against the handful of horsemen who flew on sight. </p><p>When Erik returned to assess the damage, his eyes met Haesten’s, who was crouching down by Knud’s body, flat on the ground. Knud had taken an arrow to the shoulder. His head had split open against a hard rock when he’d fallen off his panicked horse. </p><p>“He’s dead,” Haesten breathed out to Erik with an expression of horror on his face. </p><p>Haesten pulled out Knud’s long sword from its sheath and placed it in the earl’s hand, curling his lifeless fingers against the large pummel. For a moment, time stood still. </p><p>Then Erik started barking orders around. </p><p>“You three,” he pointed at his warriors, “take his body back to Synningthwait.” </p><p>“The rest of you,” he yelled, enraged, “WITH ME!!” </p><p>The men rode hard along the dirt road that led to Dunholm. Eventually they caught up with their attackers, only six horsemen in total. Erik and Haesten’s warriors swarmed them. </p><p>Dagfinn skewered a fat man with his spear, and he dropped like a bag of sand. Another man jumped off his horse, a fatal decision. Erik kicked his horse forward, axe in hand, and he severed the man’s head off with one broad stroke. </p><p>The other four were desperate to get away, but Haesten and his men had cut off their escape. The slaughter was quick. </p><p>“This one keeps his life!!” Erik screamed, pointing at the last living man who was cornered between the tips of his warriors’ swords. </p><p>Erik ordered his men to severe and gather the dead men’s heads, which they tied to the surviving man’s horse. They got crafty, attaching long beards and braids to the horse's mane and saddle for a dangling effect. Erik tried hanging a couple of hands to the horse's tail, but they kept slipping off, and he decided to settle for good enough. When they liked the result, they rode as a single, menacing group, and escorted their prisoner all the way to Dunholm, riding their horses up the steep and narrow path that lead to its front gates. The fortress, standing tall up on its rock, looked impregnable.</p><p>“KJARTAN!!!!” Erik bellowed toward the high ramparts. “I have a gift for you!!” </p><p>Haesten pushed their prisoner’s horse forward, and the man rode alone toward the fortress gates. After a short moment, the gates opened to let him in, and then they closed frantically again. Erik charged forward, by himself, sword in hand. </p><p>“KJARTAN!!!!” he screamed again, at the top of his lungs. “Come out and FIGHT ME!! Man on man!! Or are you too much of a COWARD to FACE MY SWORD??!” </p><p>No answer came from the fortress. Not a spear or an arrow flew. Erik raged, galloping around in circles like a mad man, swatting the air furiously with his sword, until Haesten rode up to him, forcing him to a halt.</p><p>“We must make way,” he told Erik, grabbing forcefully onto his sword arm. “It will be late into the night by the time we reach Synningthwait. It is not wise to linger.”</p><p>Erik kicked his horse forward, still raging, and his men struggled to keep up with him as they rode south to face a new form of chaos.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Aftermath</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Knud’s death sent shockwaves throughout Synningthwait. Shockwaves of grief, shockwaves of anxious febrility, and shockwaves of naked unleashed ambition. While high-ranking warriors plotted for control, and while mothers feared the unavoidable instability that would ensue, Knud’s people prepared his funeral. </p><p>“Did you hear?” Clothilde asked Erik, one afternoon. </p><p>The young woman had followed Knud and his warriors ever since Frankia, cooking and threading and serving in their camp, and then at Synningthwait. Through the years, she’d become one of their own. </p><p>“Abigall will go with him. On the pyre.”</p><p>“She will?!!” Erik was shocked by that. He tripped over his words. “She must have really loved him…”</p><p>“Possibly…” Clothilde thought, unsure.</p><p>“Why else would she wish to join him in the afterlife?” Erik asked. </p><p>“You’re an idiot, Erik…” Clothilde smirked. </p><p>She and Erik had messed around for a time, but over the years, they’d settled into being friends. She had ended things in the most frustrating manner, and Erik was most definitely not going to beg. A man had his pride. And Synningthwait was full of women. Less fickle ones. Clothilde was very good, though. Erik felt his cheeks getting flushed just thinking about it. He’d been lying back on his cot, back when they lived in tents, breeches downs to his ankles, and she’d been on her knees, sliding him in and out of her mouth. </p><p>And all of a sudden, that shrewd woman had interrupted his pleasure, lifting her head up and looking him in the eye. </p><p>“You’re not that handsome, you know,” Clothilde had said, a bit defiantly.</p><p>Erik had pulled himself up on one elbow. “You just thought of that?” he’d smirked. “Because that is not what you said last night…” </p><p>He’d pushed Clothilde’s head back down a bit, playfully trying to reunite her lips with the task she’d embarked on, but she’d swatted his hand away and resisted, then she’d wiped the side of her mouth with her sleeve. Erik had responded with a disappointed moan. </p><p>“Let me rephrase that. NOBODY is handsome enough for me to ever put up with Sigefrid,” she’d said, teasing but resolute. </p><p>Clothilde had stood up, meaning to walk out. </p><p>“Wait! Aren’t you gonna finish?” Erik had asked, surprised by her brazenness.</p><p>“Non. Why don’t you ask your brother instead?” she’d retorted. </p><p>And Clothilde had exited the tent with a skip in her step, leaving Erik to moan and growl like a wounded animal.  </p><p>So Clothilde had put an end to those kinds of encounters with Erik, years ago, and they’d just remained friends. Erik enjoyed her irreverence. Clothilde could dish it right back, and more. She could get vicious, too. And now she’d just called him an idiot. </p><p>“What, why?!” he asked.</p><p>“Abigall is a woman.” </p><p>Erik was confused. </p><p>“She has been a slave, Erik. And then a queen. What do you think awaits her now?”</p><p>“But… Knud’s men will protect her. I would protect her. We would look out for her, Sigefrid and I. For Knud.”</p><p>“Erik...” Clothilde roller her eyes. “Men die. They buy, they claim, they control, and they die. And what do you think happens to us women, when men die?” </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“We roll the dies and we hold our breath. Do you think Abigall wishes to roll those dies again? Nobody will ever worship her like Knud has.”</p><p>Clothilde seemed fairly sure about that.</p><p>Erik shrugged. “I’ll speak with her. Swear her my sword. At least she’ll know she has a choice.”</p><p> </p><p>And he kept his word. Erik walked into Synningthwait’s hall, which was rather modest in size. He announced himself, and Abigall’s servants brought him to her. Abigall was sitting on a wooden stool, her long torso very straight. Queenly. Her girl had been braiding her long black hair in preparation for the funeral. She wore a bright blue dress that hugged her willowy body. Her arms wore dozens of silver arm rights that clung together as she moved them. If she was surprised to see Erik, her face did not show it.</p><p>He asked if they could speak alone, and Abigall gestured, arm rings clanging, for the girl to leave them. Erik felt intimidated, but he would not be deterred. He dropped onto one knee and he promised her his sword and his protection, if she chose to live. And Abigall, tall, poised, queenly Abigall, laughed in his face. </p><p>“You’re a puppy!” she squealed. Erik blushed, embarrassed. He realized he’d never heard her laugh. Somehow that made her even more intimidating. </p><p>“You do not need to do this… You will be cared for,” Erik swore, earnestly. He felt like an idiot and thought of Clothilde.</p><p>“And what will you want from me, Erik Thurgilson?” Abigall asked, pinching her lips.</p><p>“To let me protect you. I’ll keep you safe,” he offered.</p><p>“I do not wish to live as your pet. Men tire of pets,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And I do not wish to bed you. You will not teach this old dog new tricks.” </p><p>Erik was mildly offended that his intentions were being misconstrued. “I simply offer my help. For Knud.”</p><p>“And he would be grateful that you did, Erik,” she softened. “He was fond of you. But I do not want protection. I do not wish for my fate to bend to the fickle will of men.” She squinted. “I wish to bend it myself.” </p><p>Erik shuddered.</p><p>“Plus,” Abigall added, more lightly, “Knud needs me by his side.” </p><p>She stood up, signalling for him to leave. “You’re a good one, Erik. Don’t let this rotten life spoil you.”</p><p>She slid an arm ring off her wrist and handed it to Erik, who took it, awkwardly. It was delicate, twisty and ornate. A fine, well-crafter piece of silver.</p><p>“Here. I won’t need those anymore. I will see you on the other side,” she smiled mysteriously. </p><p>Erik nodded and walked out of the great hall, a bit dazed. </p><p> </p><p>He found Clothilde again that evening and he told her what had happened. She was considerate enough not to tell him she’d told him so. </p><p>Erik had been pondering about women’s fate, about men’s fickleness. He thought of Estrid, to whom he’d given no choice but to let him leave. He thought of the child he’d fathered and wondered if it lived. </p><p>He looked at Clothilde and asked, “what do you do? When men die around you?”</p><p>“You survive…” she shrugged. “You find a way.” She added, cheekily “you find another poor sap who’s willing to look out for you.”</p><p>Erik gave her a knowing smile. “I could be your poor sap. If you want.”</p><p>Clothide shook her head. “You come with strings, mon chéri. Big, hairy, raging strings.”</p><p>“Awww! He’s not that bad…” Erik gave her his most concentrated smoldering look. “It is your loss, woman,” he said, in a low growly voice.</p><p>Clothilde giggled. She took pleasure in messing with Erik’s head. He was entertaining like that. “Erik,” she smirked, “we both know the loss is yours.”</p><p>Erik admitted as much. He was foolish enough to step on his pride and beg, and Clothilde was cold enough to deny him. Again. She truly knew how to make a grown man feel like a fool, he thought.</p><p> </p><p>Knud’s funeral was an extravagant affair. A great pyre was built on the bank of the river Ure, in front of Synningthwait’s hall. On the pyre lied Knud’s body, dressed in an elaborate leather armour that had never been worn. Lamb and cattle and sheep were slaughtered for a great feast, and the ale and wine flowed freely. There was music, dancing and sacrifices. Erik, shirtless and mildly entranced, took down Knud’s stallion with his axe for the beast to be burned along with its master. </p><p>Once the sun had set, Abigall came down the hall’s main steps, statuesque in her blue dress, and for a moment the raucous crowd quieted down. The lady was served copious amounts of wine, until she could no longer walk without the support of her servants. She was helped up on the pyre, where she sat against Knud’s still body, expressionless. </p><p>An old maid brought a sharp sax whose hilt was covered in jewels, and she handed the weapon to Abigall. The slave-queen closed her eyes, pointing the sax at her chest, both hands on the hilt. She sat still, and mumbled to herself for several minutes. She let out a loud scream and, with some assistance from the older woman, she pushed the blade into her heart and collapsed onto the pyre.</p><p>“Freya…” Sigefrid whispered, mesmerized.  </p><p>The old woman positioned Abigall’s lifeless body alongside the earl’s. That night, the two of them were slowly turned into ashes by the flames that rose high, burning late into the night.  </p><p>That evening, while the funeral raged on in a frenzy of drinking, feasting, whoring and sacrificing, Erik cornered his brother, far enough from the burning pyre to grant themselves a bit of privacy. </p><p>“Do we take command?” Erik asked Sigefrid, decisively. </p><p>“I want to,” Sigefrid answered. “I’m ready.” He gave Erik a pat on the shoulder, smiling broadly. “We’re ready.”</p><p>“We are,” Erik agreed. “Then we move fast. Haesten will fall in line.” </p><p>“Do you believe him loyal?” Sigefrid asked.</p><p>Erik laughed at that. “But he won’t pick that fight.”</p><p>“What about Thorkild?” </p><p>Erik waved his brother’s concerns off. “Bolti and Haesten will never swear to him. He will lose a third of the men.”</p><p>“And Egil, will he support us?”</p><p>Erik was not certain. “He might side with the Danes.”</p><p>“But Aldrik will side with us.” </p><p>“Most likely,” Erik nodded. “We just need to give the shipmasters something they’ll want to fight for.”</p><p>“Like what?” Sigefrid wondered. </p><p>“Eoferwic.”</p><p>“Eoferwic!!!” Sigefrid guffawed, surprised by the boldness of Erik’s proposition. “My brother wants Eoferwic!”</p><p>“I do,” Erik grinned. </p><p>“But it’s landlocked. A dull place for a shipmaster…”</p><p>“No worse than Synningthwait…” Erik pointed out. “We’re about to beach the ships for the season. The men will fight for a comfortable place to winter. Many aging warriors want to claim land and settle, bring their family here. Eoferwic has been in shambles ever since Halfdan sailed for Ireland. It’s ready for the picking.” He furrowed his brow. “Ricsig is weak. Without our support, he will fall.”</p><p> “Sigefrid and Erik Thurgilson, earls of Eoferwic! I like the sound of that!” Sigefrid laughed again. “What about the fleet?” he wondered.</p><p>“We leave it here,” Erik answered, confidently. </p><p>“You don’t want to attack from the river?!” Sigefrid wondered. </p><p>“The Ouse is too narrow. It is easily blocked. I say we march south. Some war bands might join our numbers as we approach Eoferwic. We should send out scouts. Negotiate as we march. Slow and steady.” </p><p>“Who will guard the ships?” Sigefrid questioned again.</p><p>“We could leave enough men with Dagfinn,” Erik proposed.</p><p>“Dagfinn is no commander,” Sigefrid sneered.</p><p>“Exactly. He won’t get any ideas if he’s left behind with an entire fleet. He can be trusted.”</p><p>Sigefrid looked at the pyre, staring into the glowing flames. “When do we make the claim?”</p><p>“In two days’ time, as soon as the funeral is over.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Lords of Eoferwic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sigefrid and Erik’s push to reclaim Knud’s army went relatively unchallenged, at least openly. They were, it felt, the next logical choice. Men who did not approve of Sigefrid’s style typically respected Erik’s balancing touch. And then there was Eoferwic. The city’s wealth, and its reputation for being filled with lascivious women, was enough to rally anyone who’d remained skeptical. </p><p>Within two weeks’ time, the army was ready to march. The men assembled on a crisp morning, invigorated by the battle to come. Sigrefrid rode passed his brother, commandingly, in full armour.  </p><p>Erik tilted his head to the side, caught off guard by what he saw. “What have you done to your horse?!” he asked. </p><p>Sigefrid grinned from ear to ear. His stallion was adorned with a fierce looking pair of horns, giving it the look of a wild beast sent from the realm of Hel. </p><p>“Does North Fury mind?” Erik asked, incredulous.</p><p>“No. He’s a good boy!” Sigefrid patted the beast’s neck. “But Ricsig will shit is breeches!!” </p><p>Erik laughed. From his tricked out horse, Sigefrid stood tall, waving his battle ax high up in the air. In his low, booming voice, he riled up the troops with promises of blood, glory, land and plunder. Then, he and Erik marched their army toward Eoferwic.</p><p>Erik’s approach was successful. A few large war bands joined their ranks as they marched, inflating their numbers. Others fled west to Cumbraland, unwilling to be caught up in the brewing conflict. By the time the brothers’ army reached the fortified city, Ricsig had lost most of his support.</p><p>The brothers laid siege around Eoferwic, and Ricsig’s men led a few charges outside its walls, meeting the Thurgilson’s army shield wall to shield wall. But within days, Ricsig had lost all legitimacy, and he was murdered by a group of Danes who’d remained inside the city walls. And Eoferwic, eager for peace, opened its gates wide to welcome its new rulers.  </p><p>Inside the great hall of Eoferwic, the brothers found puppet King Egbert II, the Saxon man placed on the Northumbrian throne by Halfdan Ragnarsson a few years prior. </p><p>“Here’s the king,” Erik told Sigefrid, with a knowing look.</p><p>When he’d risen to power, Ricsig had kept Egbert on his leash, ruling in the king’s shadow.</p><p>Sigefrid nodded at his brother, grabbed his battle axe, and wacked the king in the head. Sigefrid did not care for shadows. </p><p>The brothers discovered that Eoferwic under Danish rule had become a strange beast. The Northmen were in charge and they made the law, but the local population was a mixture of Christians and pagans, of Saxons and Britons, of Scots and Danes and Norsemen. Local priests had their churches, and nuns their nunneries, and the cohabitation was mostly peaceful on the surface. </p><p>Sigefrid, however, loathed the priests. He found them irksome, weak, pitiful. Barely men at all, he though, unable to wield weapons, serving their god on their knees while pagans ruled. He thought that nailed god must have been weak. As good as dead on that cross, however that killed him.</p><p>In theory, Sigefrid forbade his warriors from attacking or robbing churches. But he’d mostly look the other way whenever they picked fights with men in robe. He himself always enjoyed giving them a good scare if a flock of them were foolish enough to cross his path. He just liked to watch them cower and run in those silly robes, a simple pleasure that Erik found childish, but that did wonders for his mood.  </p><p>He would have burned the whole lot of them, locked inside their temple, but Erik had made it clear that peace among all tribes was essential for Eoferwic to thrive. Some days, Sigefrid longed for his Viking days, when the power he yielded was conveyed through his axe and sword. Nevertheless, he was eager to exploit entertainment opportunities afforded by his newfound position. </p><p>Soon after the Thurgilsons took the city, the earl Kjartan travelled south with his son and a handful of warriors to pay a visit to the new lords of Eoferwic. The brothers supposed that Kjartan must have been eager to secure peace, but Erik flat out refused to grant him an audience. So Sigefrid pinched his nose and welcomed them alone. </p><p>“Do you wish to look at my toes, earl Kjartan?” Sigefrid asked the visitors once they’d stepped into his hall. </p><p>His overly cheerful enthusiasm caught Kjartan off guard. The earl had expected a tense welcome, given their bad blood. </p><p>“Your toes…” Kjartan repeated, nonplussed, wondering whether he was in the presence of a mad man.</p><p>“We have gathered quite a few!” Sigefrid cheered, a bit aggressively.</p><p>Sigefrid guided Kjartan and his men toward a table set against the stairs that led to the hall’s raised platform. On this table, a series of severed toes was displayed in a single row, each labelled with symbols written on a piece of parchment. A monk sat by the decaying display with ink, pen and a small book.</p><p>“You see, my man Hasten had this strange idea that Saxon toes are round, while Dane toes are longer,” Sigefrid explained. “I wished to see it for myself,” he continued, making a conscious effort to keep things casual. </p><p>“After we took the city, some of my men picked Dane toes, and others picked Saxon toes. The monks here, they write it all down, everything you tell them! Can you tell which is which?”   </p><p>Kjartan’s son, the man known as One-Eyed Sven, cut through what he perceived as nonsense. “So are they any different?!” he snapped.</p><p>“They are!!” Sigefrid beamed, with just a touch of edge. “Haesten was right!” </p><p>Sigefrid turned squarely toward Kjartan then and he stared him down, suddenly expressing how much he loathed the man. “But I do not believe you rode all the way to Eoferwic to see my toes," he let out in a more menacing tone. "What brings you here," he paused deliberately, "earl Kjartan?” </p><p>Sven became visibly agitated by Sigefrid's change of demeanor, and Sigefrid enjoyed that little bit of discomfort he created. Kjartan, however was not one to be intimidated so easily. </p><p>“I wish to renew my allegiance to Eoferwich. I came with gifts,” he said flatly. </p><p>Kjartan gestured for his warriors to bring forward a small chest filled with silver. Sigefrid nodded and grunted approvingly.</p><p>“And what do you wish for in return?” Sigefrid inquired in a deep, growly voice. </p><p>“Peace,” Kjartan said, simply. “An alliance, possibly.”</p><p>Sigefrid sneered, which made Sven flinch. The guy was all nerves. But then Sigefrid burst out laughing. “Are you asking me for my brother’s hand, earl Kjartan?!!” he bellowed.</p><p>The man, who’s lips did not seem to know how to smile, answered sternly. “I have a daughter. Soon to be of age.”</p><p>“Does she come with a dowry, or is she just some slave’s pup?” Sigefrid sneered.</p><p>“She is my sister,” his one-eyed son whined.</p><p>Sigefrid shrugged dismissively. “I don’t take wives. There’s enough women around to keep me warm.”</p><p>“And the lord Erik?” Kjartan asked, unfazed. “Is he in need of a wife?”</p><p>Sigefrid shook his head slowly. “Awww… He is. But Erik is a difficult man to please. He left half is heart at the end of a fjord years ago. Never found anything like her again.”</p><p>“He seeks a love match,” Kjartan scoffed, perhaps unwisely.</p><p>Sigefrid tensed up at the perceived slight, and for a second he looked as if he was ready to pounce. Kjartan’s men seemed to hold their breath, while Sigefrid’s retainers stood on guard, unsure which way their lord’s mood might flip. </p><p>“He does…” Sigefrid nodded slowly. </p><p>His body relaxed then, thinking of Erik, and the tension diffused throughout the room. </p><p>“My brother is built like that,” Sigefrid smiled to himself, amused by his own thoughts. “His cock is tied to his heart. They work together.” He flipped his hand up and down, for good measure. “Maybe if he meets the lady?” he offered, half-heartedly.</p><p>“What would I do with that weasel shit’s daughter??!” Erik lashed out when Sigefrid approached him with the matter. He grimaced. “Tell Kjartan that I am in no need of his horse-faced bitch from Niflheim.”</p><p>“Not even for a fortress?” Sigefrid asked him, teasingly. He knew his brother had had Dunholm on his mind for a while.</p><p>Erik reached to pat Sigefrid’s back. “I’d rather take it by force, if it is the fortress you want, brother.”</p><p>“Now I would like that!” Sigefrid chuckled.</p><p>And so, at the end of the year 879, Kjartan and his men travelled back to Dunholm without having formalized an alliance with the new lords of Eoferwic, but hopeful that they’d bought themselves a temporary peace.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Aedre</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So far in vol. 2, most of the narrative has been driven by military campaigns and conquests, by brotherhood and growth. And now, the story takes a much more intimate turn, and the narrative unravels on a micro-scale. </p><p>I’m also trying something here, and I’m hoping not to grossly miss the mark on a very, very delicate topic. Vikings were basically shit heads who created a lot of misery. A fair chunk of their economy was based on slavery. Bed slaves were a thing these men bought. They shipped people from all over, from the middle east to Iceland, and this trading had a major impact on the gene pool all over medieval Europe. </p><p>So far, my story has been focusing almost strictly on people who benefitted from this system, including our two favorite dude bros. In the next chapters, I’m introducing a character whose life has been wrecked by this system. She’s a survivor of slavery and sexual assault. She has very little agency, and a lot of baggage. At first, she doesn’t even speak the language. I wanted to tell her story. It’s about her journey, as well as Erik’s. And I hope that I did her justice. I would hate for this character to be a clumsy cliché who is tragic just for the sake of advancing the men’s story line. </p><p>I cannot emphasize enough how these chapters could be extremely triggering, and I hope that people take good care of themselves, and use their judgement regarding whether this content is for them. If you find my writing problematic, I’d also be grateful to hear your perspective. I’m writing from a place of privilege, blind spots and all, and I can’t pretend to anticipate all the ways in which my story might affect, or even be offensive, to others. So I welcome all feedback. Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the fall of 881, Erik rode through the main gates of Eoferwic with a group of his warriors, having just deterred a Saxon war band who’d been raiding nearby farmland. The group had scattered without putting up much of a fight after Erik’s men had made an example out of their leader. </p><p>The warriors dismounted in the energized city square where merchants were setting up in preparation for a buzzing market day. Among them, slavers were setting up a large platform across from the big hall.</p><p>Newly arrived slave shipments were led off horse-pulled wagons that were built like cages. Erik noticed a group of slaves bound to each other by ropes tied to their hands and necks. Men, women, warriors, farmers, children, Saxons, Britons, Danes. Among the eclectic group of captives was a young woman, a foreigner, who was pulled back and forth like a ragged doll between two men who’d been arguing loudly. </p><p>Alerted, Erik abandoned his men to approach the commotion.  </p><p>“What is the reason for all this noise?” he asked the men, abruptly. </p><p>One of the two men, a Saxon, recognized him. “Lord Erik, good day!”</p><p>Erik nodded. </p><p>“This man refuses to hear my price for this slave,” the same man scorned.</p><p>The merchant, a Dane, retorted. “She is of value. She will command a hefty sum at the auction. I do not care to undercut my profit for this fool.”</p><p>The woman had cowered in fear behind two of her companions. </p><p>“Why not buy her at the auction?” Erik asked the Saxon.</p><p>He frowned. “I do not wish to risk her going to another.”</p><p>“Surely there will be a choice of women at the auction today?” Erik wondered.</p><p>The man insisted. “I want this one. I wish to pay now.”</p><p>“And I am not selling,” the merchant replied.</p><p>“Can we see this woman?” Erik asked, curious.</p><p>The merchant shrugged, but complied.</p><p>“You, here,” he yelled, and he pulled at the woman’s neck rope. Her companions stepped aside and she wobbled forward. The merchant grabbed her chin and lifted her head up so Erik could see her face. Her large green eyes, bordered by a thick layer of black eyelashes, contrasted brightly against her olive skin. The frail woman was uniquely, singularly beautiful. </p><p>“Ten pieces of silver,” the Saxon said. </p><p>“At the auction,” the merchant scorned. </p><p>Erik was irked by these two pitiful men arguing over a slave like hungry dogs, and he wished to put an end to this embarrassing spectacle. At least that’s how he rationalized what he did next.</p><p>“What price do you hope to make for this woman at the auction today?” Erik asked. “I’ll pay you double.”</p><p>The Saxon reacted as if he’d been stung, but he bit his tong.</p><p>“My lord?” the merchant asked.</p><p>“How much?” Erik barked. “Or should we settle this matter in my brother’s hall?”</p><p>The merchant’s eyes grew wide. “I ask for 35 pieces of silver, lord.”</p><p>“35??!” the Saxon scoffed. “She’s a slave, not a bride!!”</p><p>Erik walked to his horse nonchalantly, reached into one of the saddle bags and pulled out a leather pouch filled with silver coins. He counted the coins, placed the proper count back inside the pouch and kept the rest.</p><p>“Will this do?” Erik said, casually handing the silver over to the merchant. The Saxon scoffed loudly and walked away. </p><p>The merchant counted the pieces, meticulously, then he nodded. He cut the rope that tied the woman to the others, and handed over the end of her neck rope to Erik. </p><p>“My lord,” he nodded. “She won’t be any trouble.” </p><p> </p><p>Erik took several minutes to cut off the cord that wrapped around the woman’s neck with the knife he’d pulled from his belt, as delicately as he could. She stared at him, wide eyed. Her hair was a long, black, tangled mess, her clothes just a shapeless ragged shift. Erik could barely look away. </p><p>“What is your name?” he asked. </p><p>She shook her head slightly. </p><p>“Do you understand me?”</p><p>She did not speak. He gestured for her to come, and she followed. What else could she possibly do, he thought, in a city packed with his warriors. Erik walked next to her, awkwardly, guiding his horse behind them. The woman’s steps were a quiet shuffle, as if she did not dare to occupy space. They reached the little house Erik had claimed as his own, adjacent to the big hall. He liked the quiet intimacy of it, while Sigefrid had set up his living quarters on the superior level inside the massive hall. </p><p>Erik handed his horse over to a servant and held the door for the woman to step inside. With his head, he gestured for the kitchen maid to make herself sparse. The woman rushed out, apologetic, and his new slave froze behind her curtain of hair as they found themselves alone.</p><p>“Erik,” he said, placing his palm on his chest. “And you?” he pointed at her.</p><p>“Aedre,” she whispered, looking down.</p><p>“Aedre… that’s pretty.” He gave her a warm smile.</p><p>Her eyes remained fixated on the ground, her body immobile.</p><p>“You’ll be safe here, Aedre,” Erik said, as softly as he could. He figured his words made no sense to her, but he hoped to appease her with his voice, like one might with a frightened horse.</p><p>He walked across the room, grabbed a bowl and a spoon, and scooped some stew from the simmering pot that was suspended above the little heart. He handed her the bowl, and the woman sat on a stool against the wall, her back straight up, looking puzzled.</p><p>“Eat”, he gestured. </p><p>Erik sat on another stool, as far as possible, questioning what folly took him to buy this woman on a whim. She was breathtakingly beautiful, that much was obvious to any man with a working pair of eyes. But clearly, she had no wish to be here at all. And Erik wasn’t sure he knew how to make her feel differently, but suddenly the way she felt had become very important to him. </p><p>When she put down the bowl of stew, half-finished, Erik grabbed the woman’s hand and he tugged her gently toward his bedroom. </p><p>“Come,” he said. He guided her to his bed. “You,” Erik pointed at her. “Here,” he indicated the bed. Aedre’s eyes grew wide, but she was too petrified to budge.</p><p>Erik let go of her hand and walked across the room. He started setting up some blankets and furs on an empty cot he typically used to put down his belongings, and he made a bed out of it.</p><p>“Me”, Erik put his palm on his chest, “here,” he said, pointing at the makeshift cot. </p><p>Aedre breathed a barely perceptible sigh of relief. She sat on his bed, her hands clutched together, and Erik thought she looked frail and exhausted. </p><p>“You can sleep,” he added, gesturing for her to lie down. </p><p>Aedre looked at Erik then, the first direct gaze she’d ever given him, as if she was looking at him for the first time. She said, faintly. “Tank… you.”</p><p>Erik nodded, then he walked out of the bedroom, slowly and deliberately, not to startle her. </p><p>He could not figure out how Aedre had been brought all the way to Northumbria, nor how she’d ended up with a Saxon name without speaking five words of their tong. He assumed a woman with her beauty would have sold quickly anywhere along the long journey that took her to these distant lands. Life as a slave could be a fate worse than death, Erik knew, especially for a young woman. He assumed she’d been beaten and raped and starved, and only the gods knew what else. Stripped of her humanity. And for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Erik craved to connect with her humanity. </p><p>He insisted that servants were to teach Aedre the muddled blend of Saxon and Danish that was most commonly spoken around Eoferwic, and to treat her kindly. He did not dare touching her for fear that she might break. Her sleep was agitated, Erik was perturbed to find out, and she’d sometimes cry in her dreams in a language he did not know. Aedre helped to clean and cook, and she preferred to stay safely hidden inside Erik’s house in his absence. </p><p>Within a few weeks, she’d gotten savvier at expressing herself.</p><p>“Why you buy me?” she asked, one day. </p><p>Why, indeed, Erik thought. He wasn’t bedding her. Conversation was limited at best. She served very little purpose at all. She was just the one he came home to. She gave the place a soul. A presence. </p><p>“I wished to help…” he said. That wasn’t it though, was it? Erik knew he could have bought half a dozen slaves that day with the sum he’d mindlessly paid for Aedre. He tried again. </p><p>“I guess I was lonely,” he smiled. “It’s nice to have you here.”</p><p>“Nice ‘ere,” she seemed to agree. “Nice… you.” Aedre blushed.</p><p>That surprised Erik. “Heh,” he smiled. He reached for her hand, but she flinched at his touch and he withdrew his hand immediately. </p><p>Aedre twisted her face then and sighed. She reached to grab Erik’s hand again, gently. </p><p>Erik turned his palm up slowly to press it against hers, and Aedre seemed to appreciate it.<br/>
They’d sit together sometimes, when Erik came home, just the two of them. They’d share a meal, then lean against each other and hold hands. After hours of ordering gruffy men around and putting up with Sigefrid’s volatile temper, Erik found it peaceful. Soothing. </p><p>Sometimes she’d rest her head on his shoulder, and he would tell her about his day. Erik always made a conscious effort not to move too abruptly, not to startle her. As weeks passed, Aedre picked up more words, and she started asking more questions. </p><p>“Sigefrid,” she’d repeat. “Big… strong. Scary?”</p><p>“Yes!” Erik laughed. “Maybe a little…”</p><p>“Are you… scary by him?” she asked then. </p><p>“Scared of him? Nah… He is family. My brother.” Erik asked then, “Are you scared of me?”</p><p>Aedre shook her head from side to side. Erik turned his body to face hers, slowly. He pushed a loose strand of hair behind her hear with his fingers, caressed her cheek gently, and pressed his lips against hers, as softly as he could. Then he pulled back to watch her reaction. Aedre closed her eyes and remained still, her lips slightly open. </p><p>“Do you like that?” he asked. </p><p>“Yes. I like… that,” she said, and he kissed her again, gently. Erik slid his fingers through her long thick hair, and he kissed her a third time.  </p><p>“Do you like that?” he repeated.</p><p>“Yes,” she nodded. </p><p>He let his hands slide down her back and asked again. </p><p>“Yes,” she answered. Aedre put a hand on Erik’s jaw and she kissed him back. “I like that.” </p><p>Erik felt emboldened by her enthusiasm. He reached to unclip the brooch that held her coat on her sternum, the new one he’d gotten made for her. </p><p>She tensed up as the fabric slid off her shoulders. </p><p>“You don’t like that,” Erik shook his head. He picked up the fabric and wrapped it around her shoulders again. </p><p>“No…” she whispered with her eyes closed. “Don’t.”</p><p>“Very well.” Erik smiled, tentatively. He kissed her fingers, gently, and he sat back to give her space. </p><p>“Apology,” Aedre said, softly. “I am not… good woman.”</p><p>“You are good. You are great! I like you in my home,” he said, warmly. </p><p>Aedre stood up then and said “I remove.” And she let the fabric slide off her shoulders again.</p><p>“You do,” Erik nodded, a bit surprised by this turn of events. </p><p>Aedre took his hand and pulled him to his feet and into the bedroom. She made him sit on the bed he’d given up for her, then she slipped her dress over her head, revealing her naked body.</p><p>Erik was entranced by the sight of her small perky breasts, her smooth olive skin, the softness of her delicate curves despite her thinnest. For a moment he did not dare to move. </p><p>“Can I touch you, here?” Erik asked, slowly bringing a hand to her face. </p><p>“Yes,” she said. She bent down to kiss him, and Erik felt a violent surge of desire course through his body. He closed his eyes to regain some sense of control. </p><p>Aedre grabbed his hand and place it on her naked chest. “And here,” she said. </p><p>Erik pulled his hand away, doubtful that he could muster the strength to handle her as gently as he felt she needed him to. </p><p>He sat back, adding some distance between their bodies. </p><p>“I want to touch you too much,” he said, hoping she’d understand.  </p><p>Aedre seemed disappointed. She picked up her dress and wrapped herself in its fabric. Erik pulled her gently to sit next to him. </p><p>They lied against each other in the bed, Aedre wrapped in the dress, Erik behind her, fully clothed. She fell asleep in his arms, while Erik explored unchartered territories within the landscape of his patience.</p><p>By trial and error, Erik learned to navigate intimacy with Aedre, who was willing but full of edges. He would offer, and she would take it or leave it. If she denied him, she would sometimes suggest a different way, otherwise Erik would just thank her for letting him know. Some things were simply off limit. He could never be rough, sudden or forceful, not even for play. Aedre would recoil at being undressed, and handled her own clothes. She also refused to let him take her from behind. They would only make love face to face, her gaze locked to his as if he were her lifeline, her path to safety. </p><p>Sometimes she seemed to withdraw far within her own head, and Erik would pull her back to him, gently. “Where did you go, there?” he’d ask. And sometimes Aedre would just shake her head, and sometimes she would find the words to share. The memories were always bad, sometimes they proved too much even for Erik. </p><p>He discovered, eventually, that Aedre was not her true name. That she’d had another, long ago, a name that had not been spoken since she was a small child, sold to slavers by a desperate widow. She’d been traded from port to port, bought and sold along the way, until she’d made her way to Iberia where she was groomed by a group of merchants for their personal enjoyment. Aedre had recently been traded and brought to Eoferwic when the merchants had run into financial difficulties.</p><p>Despite the brutality of Aedre’s tragic fate, and despite the fragility of the balance they’d achieved, Erik enjoyed his newfound domesticity. It was on a scale he felt he could manage, without the heavy expectations of nosy relatives, the scrutiny of mingling community members, the pressures of politics or the need to provide wealth and status. It was something that was just theirs, something secret and intimate to explore and grow as they pleased. </p><p>And so Erik and Aedre loved each other, and soon enough Aedre was with child.</p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Bird Woman</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Erik had taken a liking to dressing Aedre in colorful garments he’d find around the city, which his servants turned into clothes he’d supplement with jewelry he’d stumble upon. Aedre was mostly indifferent to it, but she liked that he liked dressing her so she let him. She refused, however, to let anyone braid or cut her long silky hair, and insisted on letting is loose. She’d use it as a curtain to cut herself off from the world when it was too much to bear, a few inches of safety in a world of chaos. </p><p>Eventually, Erik convinced Aedre to step outside their bubble and dabble gently into his world. She’d accompany him to his brother’s hall, for a meal or a feast, or she’d sit in a corner for a day of ruling and administrative duties. She mostly kept to herself and did not say much, but she caught the eye of many warriors. </p><p>“Erriiiik!! Who is that?!” Sigefrid asked, the first time he laid eyes on Aedre.</p><p>“Sigefrid, this is Aedre,” Erik beamed. </p><p>Aedre nodded and whispered, “Sigefrid.” She smiled at Erik, knowingly.</p><p>Sigefrid was impressed. “I admit, brother. You know how to pick your women!! You need to get me one of those,” he patted Erik’s back. </p><p>“How does she ride,” Sigefrid asked him later, once he’d pulled Erik aside, pointing at Aedre with his chin from a distance.</p><p>“She’s… delicate,” Erik said, which failed to impress Sigefrid.</p><p> “Huh. That sounds like work...” he retorted, twisting his face. And once the novelty wore off, Sigefrid mostly kept his nose out of his brother’s private business. </p><p> </p><p>Erik took Aedre to the market one day, which took all her courage. She had not dared to return since the day she’d been bought, and she was anxious to see it from the other side. </p><p>Erik had meant to keep Aedre clear of the slavers’ section, but she pulled him there herself, surprising them both. She noticed two blond girls, around 8 or 9, tied to each other in a cart. She squeezed Erik’s hand, her palm covered in sweat despite the freazing weather, and she whispered in his ear, “the girls.”</p><p>“You wish to buy them?” Erik asked. </p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>Erik hesitated, but Aedre gave him a gentle push, and before he fully realised what he was doing, they were walking through the city center with two shivering orphans in tow. </p><p>“What now?” Erik asked. </p><p>“The nuns?” Aedre offered. They headed toward the nunnery, and Erik waited outside in the bitter cold while Aedre walked in with the girls. She found the nuns at prayer within their small chapel. </p><p>The abbess welcomed her with a cold stare. “Who disrupts my peace?”</p><p>“The girls,” Aedre tried, concentrating on her pronunciation. “They need bed. Food. Dress.” </p><p>The abbess pinched her thin lips.</p><p>“I pay silver,” Aedre added. And before the abbess could throw them out, Aedre filled her palm with coins. “To feed…” she added. </p><p> “Who are you?” the abbess asked, puzzled by Aedre’s looks. A foreigner, obviously, and a rare beauty at that, dressed in fine garments and a lovely coat, but shifty and nervous like a bird. A rather strange lady. </p><p>“Lord Erik. He buy me,” she explained. </p><p>The abbess’ face softened. “My poor child” she gasped, “how that heathen must mistreat you…” The abbess held Aedre’s hands and gave them a gentle squeeze.</p><p>Aedre was surprised by her pity. “My lord is good man. I spend his silver,” she smiled.</p><p>“Praise him!” a young nun cheered from the back row, her face beaming with a mischievous smile.</p><p>The abbess shot her a look sharp enough to kill. But in the end, the woman accepted to keep the girls. </p><p>Once they'd returned home, they found warmth by the hearth's slowly burning fire, and Erik pulled something out of a small pouch he kept around his neck. </p><p>“This is for you,” he told Aedre. </p><p>He passed a thin, finely carved silver arm ring around her wrist. </p><p>“What is it?” she asked</p><p>“An arm ring. It belonged to a woman who was once a slave.”  </p><p>Aedre gave Erik a strange look. “You buy many woman?” she asked. </p><p>“No!!” he was embarrassed at the confusion. “This is a first,” he acknowledged, squeezing her hand. </p><p>“She your woman?” Aedre asked.</p><p>“No. When I met her, she was a queen,” Erik smiled. “A Viking queen.”</p><p>“What is queen?” Aedre asked. </p><p>“Like a king, who is a woman?” Erik explained.</p><p>“Slave queen…” Aedre nodded.  “I pay girls with it!” she beamed, twisting the ring around her wrist. </p><p>“You do not need to!” Erik said, a bit disappointed. “Ask me if you need silver.”</p><p>“The queen help girls. If she is good queen,” Aedre insisted, with a scowl. </p><p>Erik could not argue with her logic. The next week, Aedre hacked Abigall’s arm ring and she traded a piece of it to the slavers.   </p><p>She returned frequently to the market, where she would buy little girls that she’d bring to the nuns. At first she went with Erik, but as her English improved, she preferred to leave him home, appreciating how prices suddenly dropped in his absence. Aedre also discovered herself a talent for bargaining, often extracting discounts from the merchants. </p><p>She gave some of Erik’s silver for the nuns to expand so they could room and educate the girls she’d bring. Aedre loved to sit with the smallest ones, telling them stories she made up in her broken English. Fantastic stories about girls who turned into colorful birds and flew to mythical lands where men and beast were good, where they could spread their wings and fly. The kinds of stories she’d told herself as a child when she was too terrified to sleep. </p><p>Aedre became a bit of an oddity around Eoferwic, strange but beloved. The lady Aedre, the nuns called her, and Aedre thought that was funny, but this new life suited her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ladies and gentlemen, this bro fest of a story has officially cleared the spectacularly low bar that is the Bechdel test. </p><p>Yay?</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Broken</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter might be triggering as fuck: attempted rape and detailed aftermath. Torture and toxic masculinity. Our boy Erik is pissed off.</p><p>I had to make edits to this chapter because I screwed up and accidentally broke with cannon: in the show, it is clear that Sigefrid meets Aelfric for the first time when Aelfric walks to Eoferwic with his 200 spear-men to join Guthred, in exchange for Uhtred's head. Oops! So in this edited version, Erik meets Aelfric alone (which is probably still breaking with canon, but less blatantly).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Erik walked into Eoferwic's great hall that earl spring morning, he crossed paths with a priest who stumbled down the steps, blood dripping onto the front of his grey robe. He found Sigefrid pacing around, agitated. </p><p>“What happened to the priest?” Erik asked his brother. </p><p>“What priest?” Sigefrid asked, disingenuously.</p><p>“The bleeding one.”</p><p>“He tripped,” Sigefrid shrugged.</p><p>Erik raised an eyebrow, and Sigefrid just rolled his eyes.</p><p>“I helped him pray!” </p><p>“…” </p><p>“What?! He came in here, crying for silver, whining that Ricsig’s men plundered his church! Like it’s my fault.”</p><p>“Do we have his silver in the hoard?” Erik asked calmly.</p><p>Sigefrid threw his hands up. “What do I know?! I told him to pray on his knees, maybe his god would find his silver?!”</p><p>“Told him.”</p><p>“I helped him find his knees.” Sigefrid growled, “you should let me burn the church down.”</p><p>“And what good would that do?”</p><p>Sigefrid has some suggestions. “Warmth? Fewer priests?”</p><p>“Sigefrid…”</p><p>“I know. I knooow.”</p><p>Erik cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Kjartan…”</p><p>Sigefrid growled “…is a weasel from my arse.”</p><p>“And a menace,” Erik said, firmly. </p><p>“What do you suggest?” Sigefrid asked, intrigued.</p><p>“I want to put Haesten in Dunholm.”</p><p>“Eh. How do you suppose we do that?”</p><p>“Kjartan is also a threat to Bebbanburg…” </p><p>“You wish to ally ourselves with the Saxon turd?”</p><p>“We could ask. We need enough men for a long siege. I’m thinking we should ride north to speak with Aelfric.”</p><p>“I can do it.” Sigefrid was excited at the opportunity to hit the road, now that the weather was finally warming up. He had been growing awfully bored. </p><p>“I wish to be there,” Erik insisted.</p><p>“What are you saying, brother?” </p><p>“We need his men, not his head.” </p><p>“Why not have both?!” Sigefrid laughed. </p><p>“We'll travel together.”</p><p>And Sigefrid realized he liked this idea.</p><p>They rode with a group of warriors large and armed enough to guarantee safe passage through the valley of the river Wiire, which was Kjartan’s land, and into the land of Aelfric of Bebbanburg. The Saxon lord gave the brothers a frosty welcome, refusing to open his gates for the travelling band. In the end, Aelfric agreed reluctantly to let Erik inside his impregnable sea-side fortress, alone, leaving Sigefrid and their travel-worn warriors outside the ramparts.  </p><p>“Lord Aelfric,” Erik saluted him with a warm, confident smile. “I’m Erik.”</p><p>Aelfric gestured for Erik to follow him inside his hall, where they sat around stale ale and barely edible gruel. The place had a grim feel to it, Erik thought. </p><p>“I have heard much about the brother lords of Eoferwic,” Aelfric said, a sour expression plastered on his face. “Your expansions to the north have pushed Kjartan’s men deeper into my land.” He gave Erik a severe look. “What brings you to Bebbanburg?”</p><p>“Kjartan,” Erik said, in a steady voice. </p><p>“A common foe,” Aelfric acknowledged. </p><p>Erik leaned forward on his seat, hands joined. “We wish to take Dunholm. With your help.”</p><p>“Dunholm?” Aelfric spat out. “Why would I want Dunholm?! I have a fortress. You have Eoferwic.”</p><p>“We want Dunholm,” Erik said, calmly. “And you want peace. Kjartan is forever at your gate.” </p><p>Aelfric let out a bitter, joyless laugh. “With you in Dunholm, I would be trading one threat for another,” he snickered. “Why should I lose men to do your bidding?”</p><p>“Bebbanburg would have nothing to fear from us. You have my word,” Erik insisted. </p><p>“Bebbanburg has nothing to fear from anyone,” Aelfric retorted. “See, my lord,” he said, sarcastically, “Kjartan is content with Dulholm.” He took a moment to stare Erik down. “In time, I doubt that you and your brother would be. I do not wish for your appetite to be so close to my borders.”</p><p>And so it was rapidly determined that the matter of forming an alliance to besiege Dunholm was moot. </p><p>“What is he like?” Sigefrid asked Erik as he reunited with his brother outside the fortress gates. </p><p>“Oh, you wouldn't like him. He's whiny. And his ale tastes like piss.”</p><p>“You should have let me take his head off,” Sigefrid muttered. </p><p>“In time,” Erik smirked. </p><p>Once the horses were fed and rested, the brothers and their warriors went back the same way they came. Sigefrid was peeved at first, but then he appreciated spending a few days on the road with Erik, away from the pressures of Eoferwic. They barely fought anyone on the way home, which was a pity, but they still left a couple of heads at Kjartan’s gates for the sake of tradition. They slept under the stars, hidden from the road, grateful for a rare moment of freedom.</p><p>On the second night, Erik noticed his brother sitting in the newly grown grass, looking up at the stars, and he joined him in his contemplation. “What are you thinking?” he asked Sigefrid.</p><p>“I was thinking” Sigefrid smiled, “that we should take one ship. Crew it with a small war band, and sail away. Start over. Fight for our wealth.” </p><p>“No more priests,” Erik laughed.</p><p>“The men are getting lazy. They need a good fight. I’m getting fat!” he laughed.</p><p>“You’re restless,” Erik acknowledged.  </p><p>“I need to make my sword sing. You could bring your woman,” Sigefrid proposed.</p><p>Erik shook his head softly. “She would not like that.”</p><p>“You’re happy,” Sigefrid smiled warmly, patting his brother’s back. </p><p>“I think so.”</p><p>They reached Eoferwic within a few days and rode through the city gates at dusk. Erik ordered his men to tend to his horse, and he walked home, eager to find Aedre inside. Instead, he found an open door, which was atypical. Instinctively, he reached for the pummel of his sword which he drew out of its sheath, and he kicked the door open. No one was in the main room, but he heard a muffled scream coming out of the dark bedroom, where he rushed to find two men holding Aedre down onto their bed. </p><p>She was on her back with her arms pulled up, her skirts lifted up to her waist, petrified. The younger of the two men, a skinny teenager, was sitting on her arms, covering her mouth with his hand. The older one, larger and bearded, was holding onto her legs, fumbling to push his breeches down. </p><p>Aedre saw Erik and her eyes grew huge, and he saw red. </p><p>“Get off my WIFE!!!” he raged. </p><p>The startled men released Aedre, and the older one pulled his breaches up in one swift motion. They froze. Erik would have killed them both right there and then, when he realized Aedre was crouching against the wall, emitting panicked moans and breathing with difficulty. </p><p>In a fury, Erik shoved and dragged each man violently outside the room and onto the muddy street, where he threatened them with his sword.</p><p>“KNEEL!!!!” he yelled.  </p><p>The men dropped to their knees, covering their heads. Erik’s screaming attracted a group of warriors who’d been standing on the hall’s front stairs. </p><p>“Lord?” a warrior addressed him. </p><p>“Seize these men,” Erik barked at his warriors. “Take them to my brother. Alive. They are to be executed tomorrow.”</p><p>Erik rushed back to Aedre, who had not moved from her position. </p><p>“I cannot…” and she held her throat, as if she was choking. She was shaking like a leaf, her heart beating madly. </p><p>“Breath with me,” Erik held her arms, calmly. “Slowly.” </p><p>He stroked her head gently, and spoke in a slow, soothing voice. “Aedre, close your eyes. Breath. You are safe. Just give air to the baby. Breath with me, and think of your baby. He is safe. You are safe. You just need to breath.” </p><p> </p><p>Erik rose early the next morning and came to Sigefrid, who’d kept the prisoners chained up in the middle of his hall for his warriors’ entertainment. The two men were covered in food, piss and blood. The young one’s eye was shut from too much swelling. But they were alive, as instructed. Sigefrid was cheerful. </p><p>Erik wasn’t fond of public executions, a necessary exercise he found tedious at the best of times, but this was entirely different. This time he wished to take his time. </p><p>“Should Birger do the flogging?” Sigefrid asked him with a twinkle in his eye. Sigefrid always enjoyed assigning Birger to tasks he found beneath him.</p><p>“No. I will do it myself,” Erik groaned.  </p><p>Sigefrid was taken aback. “Brother!! Could this be loooove?!” he cheered. He pulled Erik to him and pressed his forehead against his own. </p><p>Erik smirked tensely. He signalled with his head for their warriors to bring the prisoners outside, where his men pushed people back to carve out sufficient space in the middle of the busy place. A horn was blown, and more bystanders started to gather. </p><p>Erik addressed the crown in a loud, roaring voice. He weighted his words. </p><p>“These men have attacked the honor of the lady Aedre of Eoferwic.” He let that sink in. “Their punishment is death.”</p><p>The prisoners were stripped of their shirts and tied at the wrists by a rope that was attached to the tall white cross that throned in the middle of the city center, between the large church and the great hall. </p><p>Once the crowd’s excitement settled, Erik unleashed a deliberate fury onto the two men. He flogged them in alternance, throwing the full weight of his body into it, until the skin on their backs turned to a bloody pulp. After several strokes, the younger man dropped unconscious against the hard steps at the foot of the cross, whose pristine whiteness was now covered in red splatter. Erik kept beating him as he lied, broken, against the hard surface. Sigefrid gawked. He could not recognize his brother. </p><p>When Erik felt satisfied with his work, he dropped the whip, pushed the younger man flat onto his stomach with his foot, raised his axe and hacked his head off. Then he turned to his accomplice, who was crouching on all fours, and he gave him the same treatment.  </p><p>Erik came home to Aedre when the spring sun was high up in the sky, covered in blood, and he felt much calmer. He found that Aedre had moved their bed into a different corner of the room. She’d rearranged the entire room, he noticed, but he did not dare to ask her why.</p><p>After the incident, Erik and Aedre could not be intimate anymore. Aedre was startled by Erik’s touch. She would take a long time to relax in his presence, as if she had to work herself up to it, which pained him immensely. Coitus became impossible. Something about Erik’s shortened breath on top of her sent her mind running for cover, or it would trigger a full-blown panic. Soon Erik stopped trying, because there was no point and it felt cruel. </p><p>Their home felt less homely, like dread had invited itself to stay. Aedre would caress her belly, her mind slipping inward, and Erik did not dare to pull her back to him. Eventually he migrated back to his cot and gave up the bed for Aedre and the child.   </p><p>“I wish I am different. For you. With you,” she said to him one day.</p><p>Erik grabbed her hand gently, feeling a pinch in his heart. “This is not your doing. What was done to you, it is not your fault.”</p><p>“I am broken,” she sighed.</p><p>“You are hurting,” he said. “That’s different. Maybe the baby will help you get better.”</p><p>She smiled at that, a gentle, fragile smile. “Do you want to touch?”</p><p>Erik tried to rein in his enthusiasm. “I do. Can I? Can you?” </p><p>He stood in front of her, not too close, and she reached for his hand and placed it on her round stomach. </p><p>“He move,” she said. Erik felt himself grin like an idiot.</p><p>“Erik?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Thank you. For the baby.”</p><p>That night, they slept snuggled up together, him wrapped around the two of them, and it felt like family.</p>
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<a name="section0015"><h2>15. As She Pleases</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: not Erik's finest moment</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As her belly grew rounder, Aedre discovered a newfound interest in piety. She’d attended mass one morning, drawn by chanting monks inside the nearest church, the one that stood tall across from the big hall. She’d gone back most days ever since. Aedre liked to spend time within the quiet walls, alone with her thoughts. The Eoferwic priests were quick to recognize an opportunity, and soon they were showering her with attention. Like vultures, Erik though, but he let them, appreciating the serenity Aedre found in prayer.</p><p>From time to time, a priest or a group of nuns would come by their home, and Erik tolerated it as best he could. One day he walked in and found Aedre kneeling side by side with a priest, in their main room. The priest was a young man, clean shaven, a new one Erik did not recognize. Erik was irked by the way he tilted his head toward Aedre in prayer, ever so slightly.</p><p>“My lord is here,” Aedre whispered to the priest, gesturing for him to get up, which the priest did slowly, almost reluctantly.  </p><p>“Lord Erik,” the small, mild-mannered man saluted him with his head. Erik found his voice cloyingly sweet. He sensed that he made the man nervous, but he did not care to appease him. </p><p>“Father,” Erik nodded. </p><p>“We were just finishing.” He added, in his smooth voice tainted by a touch of defiance, “we have news!”</p><p>“We?” Erik raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“The lady Aedre wishes to be baptized. On Ascension Day.”</p><p>“She does?” Erik exchanged an uncertain look with Aedre, who nodded positively. </p><p>“It will be a blessed day for Eoferwic to welcome the lady into a life of servitude”. </p><p>Erik felt his face twist ever so slightly. The priest noticed. “Will you object, lord?”</p><p> “The lady has freedom to pray as she pleases,” he shrugged.  </p><p>“Will you be attending?” the priest asked, suddenly hopeful.</p><p>“No.” </p><p>The priest must have been feeling brave, for he continued, “our merciful lord opens his heart to all. Even pagans.”</p><p>“I have no need for his mercy,” Erik said, ticked off. “If your lord is so merciful, why put his people on their knees while the city is ruled by followers of the old gods?”</p><p>The priest’s face tensed up. Erik held the door open and saluted him. “A good day to you, father.”</p><p>The man understood Erik’s intentions, and he shuffled through the door briskly. Erik closed behind him.</p><p>He turned to Aedre. “Baptised?”  </p><p>“Yes,” she said. “Do you mind?”</p><p>“No. Maybe…” He looked at her. “It is your choice.”</p><p>“I wish you to be there,” she pleaded. </p><p>“I can’t. I won’t.” His tone was definitive.</p><p>“Why not?” she questioned, defiantly.</p><p>“Do you wish for my men to stab me in my sleep?” Erik retorted, frustrated.</p><p>“No,” Aedre answered, firmly. “I want to share my peace with you.”</p><p>“I have peace.” Erik said. “I have you…” </p><p>And in that moment, Erik truly felt that she was enough, and he wished that he could have been, too.</p><p> </p><p>Ascension Day came a week later, and Erik scoffed at the excited crowd that had gathered as Aedre joined the large church’s congregation to be baptised. He went to Sigefrid’s. </p><p>His brother had been angered by reports of repeated Scottish raids, ever deeper into their land. </p><p>The Scots frequently raided Cumbraland, their immediate neighbors, but they had been emboldened with the warmer weather, pushing their incursions further south into Northumbria. A new king, Aed, who rivalled Eochaid in Southern Scotland, appeared to be a man of appetite.</p><p>Sigefrid wished to bring the fight to them, to gather their forces and attack with the full strength of their army. But Erik was hesitant to venture this far north. </p><p>“We cannot march the entire army. We would need to leave enough men behind so the city holds in our absence. We’d be split between two fronts, without the protection offered by the city’s walls,” he advanced.</p><p>Sigefrid did not see it that way. “Who are you afraid of, brother? What can a bunch of priests do against our warriors? Bore us to death?”</p><p>“There’s always unrest in Eoferwic. Peace is fragile.”</p><p>“We cannot let the Scots raid us as if we were Saxons!” Sigefrid growled. </p><p>“No. But we need to build up support before we attack. Reach out to allies. Increase our numbers. We must be patients,” he insisted.</p><p>“Patient?! For some Scots?!” Sigefrid spat out. </p><p>But he trusted Erik’s instincts more than he’d ever trusted is own, and he agreed to wait. He sent a girl to fetch them a fresh jug of ale, and he decided to seek patience at the bottom of his cup. </p><p> </p><p>When Erik returned home a while later, slightly buzzed from the ale, he wondered whether Aedre had returned, or whether the priests were still holding her up, reveling in their small victory over the pagan lords of Eoferwic. The thought made him gag. </p><p>He found Aedre, rolled into a ball on their bed, facing the wall in the dark room. </p><p>“Aedre, what’s wrong?!” Erik asked, rushing to her side.</p><p>Aedre let out a pained cry, clutching at her dress. He noticed the blood on her colorful skirts.</p><p>“The baby?!!” he gasped.</p><p>“I lost him…” she whimpered.</p><p>Erik sat on the bed to pull Aedre to him, and she sobbed into his shirt, her long hair covering her face. The dread Erik felt was so heavy he thought he might choke. He clutched onto Aedre until her cries quieted down, feeling powerless. </p><p>“We’ll make another…” Erik let out, a bit desperately. He thought he was grasping at straws, clinging to a life that was slipping between his fingers. </p><p>Aedre raised her head to look at him. “God would not want that,” she said, grimly. </p><p>“What do you mean?” he asked. Deep down, he knew, but he wanted to hear her say it. Still, her answer shocked him.</p><p>“I made a heathen child, and he punished me,” she breathed out, unable to maintain Erik’s gaze.</p><p>Erik sat up. “What are you saying?!” </p><p>“God took the baby. So I can be pure. So I can become his child,” Aedre said, her voice filled with sadness.</p><p>The words hit him like a slap, which threw him into a blind rage. “Who filled you head with this nonsense?!!” he yelled. “Who???!”</p><p>Aedre rolled back away from him, cowering at his anger, and Erik stormed out of the room before he did something he might regret. He left the house, slamming the door as hard as he could. </p><p> </p><p>Erik walked straight into Sigefrid’s hall, which was already filling up with drinking warriors. The place was buzzing with music, food, rowdy chatter, ale and mead. He found Sigefrid, Haesten and Dagfinn sitting together at a table.</p><p>Erik pointed at Sigefrid with his chin, still fuming. “Got anything good to hump that's willing?”</p><p>The table erupted in cheers. Sigefrid laughed a big, thunderous laugh. </p><p>“Brother!! The lady’s cut you off, now that she’s filled with pup?!” </p><p>Sigefrid got up from his seat and wrapped an arm around Erik’s shoulders. “What are you minded for? A blond? A brunette?”</p><p>“Any red heads?” Erik snarled. </p><p>“I have two… do you want them both?” </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Sigefrid bellowed, cheerfully. “Two red heads for the lord Erik, earl of Eoferwic!!!” </p><p>Erik spent a few days drinking and whoring at his brother’s hall, eager to fog up his mind and numb the pain. It felt cathartic just to let his body work the way it was supposed to, without holding anything back. To let himself push, grab, kiss, fuck, bite, squeeze, gasp and moan, to generate pleasure in response to his. To explode carelessly between a woman’s legs, to slam his hardness against her softness, to make her quake with his tong, to feel her, or was it them, lick and suck him hard enough for him to lose any sense of now. Erik felt as if his mind had been reduced to flesh, just a pack of muscles, organs, skin and bones, his thoughts obliterated by pleasure and ale. He’d become a body. </p><p>After a third night of debauchery, Erik woke up on the cold floor in the deserted hall. His breeches were on, somehow, but he wasn’t sure where the rest went. Sigefrid approached him with breakfast.</p><p>“My cup’s empty,” Erik groaned, reaching for it on the floor. </p><p>“You have drunk all my ale,” Sigefrid answered in a calm voice. “And humped all my women…”</p><p>“That’s a lie,” Erik responded, grouchily. </p><p>“It is true enough.” Sigefrid sighed. “Enough for me to expect a litter of Erikssons just on time for Yule…”</p><p>“Surprise…!” Erik chuckled.</p><p>Sigefrid patted his brother’s head. “You should go home to your wife.”</p><p>“She is not my wife,” Erik spat out.</p><p>“To your woman,” Sigefrid corrected himself. “You have drunk enough. Do not make me carry you.”</p><p> </p><p>Erik stumbled back to his house, his eyes aching from the broad daylight. He found the house empty. He washed up with the water basin, changed into a clean shirt, and when he felt sober enough, he went looking for Aedre. </p><p>He found her inside her favorite church’s chapel, sitting quietly into prayer. Erik approached carefully and sat next to her, aware that he reeked of ale and much worse.  </p><p>“I found you,” he whispered, his voice creating ripples in the silent space. </p><p>“Erik…” Aedre’s green eyes were full of pain. </p><p>“How do you feel?” he asked, threading carefully. </p><p>“At peace,” she said with a sigh. “God watches over me.” </p><p>“So I’m told…” </p><p>Aedre turned to face Erik fully, and she grabbed his hand, squeezing it. “Erik… I ask you to free me. Please. I need you to let me go.”</p><p>“Let you go? Let you go where?” he asked, surprised.</p><p>“Father Cenhelm offers me shelter. By the church. To be closer to God.” Aedre felt tears building up and she closed her eyes. </p><p>“Oh?! Is the nunnery full again?” Erik sneared.</p><p>Aedre flinched but she did not answer. </p><p>Some things were just too broken to fix, Erik though, soberingly. He’d wished desperately to pull Aedre into his light, to help her shed the hurt that clung to her every pore. But as he sat by her in that chapel, he was fully aware that he could not. He was just one powerless man. And in the end, Aedre had found her own path to peace, and Erik felt he had no right to get in the way of that peace. So he set her free, and father Cenhelm welcomed Aedre into his house and into his bed.  </p><p>Two days had passed when Erik returned to his brother’s hall. He found Sigefrid sharpening his sword, something he liked to do when he was pondering over things.</p><p>Erik groaned in his brother’s direction. “Let’s go kill some Scots.”</p><p>“What about the city?” Sigefrid asked, puzzled.</p><p>Erik shrugged off his brother’s concerns. “Eoferwic is strong enough. It will hold. It’s time we clean our borders.”</p><p>And so, in the spring of 882, when Sigefrid and Erik mounted their horses and led their army north to bring warfare to the Scots, Erik embraced the chance to leave Eoferwic behind, and he sighed with relief. </p><p>Under the banner of the snake, Sigefrid rode beside Erik on the winding dirt road. </p><p>“How is the little lady?” he asked, tentatively. “She has gotten plump with the pup you put in there. A little earl for Eoferwic...” Sigefrid seemed cautiously proud.</p><p>“She is at peace,” Erik said simply, his eyes locked on the horizon. What else was there to say?</p>
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<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Epilogue (4 years later)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the spring of 886, Erik travelled alone to find Aedre. He’d sent out a few spies, who travelled as merchants and followed the trail of a young priest with a foreign wife of great beauty and green bewitching eyes. </p><p>It took many months, but eventually the trail led to a small abbey hidden between green rolling hills on the edge of Mercian Danelaw. </p><p>Erik rode his horse and arrived at a gated property that was surrounded by blooming apple trees. He was unsure what he was truly after, or what he’d find there. Peace of mind, possibly. Reassurance that Aedre was well. </p><p>The gates were closed, so Erik got off his horse to knock. Two young girls in grey robes opened the heavy door, ever so slightly, bewildered to see what looked like a war-Dane at their doorstep. </p><p>“We don’t have silver,” the biggest one said, in her bravest tone. </p><p>Erik flashed them a warm smile, and that confused them. He had his way with children.</p><p>“I am looking for a friend,” he said, softly. “Do you know the lady Aedre?”</p><p>“Abbess Aedre?” the youngest asked, wide eyed.</p><p>“Is that how she calls herself?” Erik asked, gently. “Is she here?”</p><p>“She’s at prayer,” the big girl answered. </p><p>“I can wait out here,” he said. “Will you tell me when she is finished?” Erik asked. </p><p>“We will,” the big girl said. “But she does not like visitors.”</p><p>“Tell her Erik wishes to see her.”</p><p>Erik waited under the blooming trees, questioning whether this was a good idea. </p><p>Aedre walked through the large wooden doors a moment later. She wore the grey, shapeless robe of a nun, a heavy crucifix hanging from her neck. An abbess indeed. Her long black hair was braided and tied, which surprised Erik, but it would have been rude to point it out. Her big eyes shone even brighter with her hair pulled back. She looked well. </p><p>“Abbess Aedre!” Erik rose to his feet, smiling widely. </p><p>“Erik! It is you!” She greeted him with a shy smile. “Why are you here?” she wondered.</p><p>Her accent was much faded. Mostly a warmth, a unique intonation she gave to the vowels. </p><p>“I needed to see that you were safe,” he said. His eyes shifted, “I did not find you in Eoferwic…”</p><p>Aedre gasped. “Did you retake the city?!”</p><p>“No,” he reassured her. “No blood was shed. King Guthred holds it. He leads an alliance of Christians and Danes. And Norsemen. There is peace.” </p><p>Erik omitted the part where he and his brother had walked out on that foolish king to wreak havoc in the countryside. And the part where his brother had been attacked and gravely injured in retribution. And the fact that he’d just sailed all the way from Frankia to con a man into joining their warfare on the entire island. He doubted that Aedre would have been impressed with him.</p><p>Instead, he just added, “last time I was there, the nunnery was well. Full, but well,” because Erik knew Aedre would care. </p><p>“Praise him,” Aedre sighed. “Come in,” she gestured. “I show you around.”</p><p>They found father Cenhelm inside a poorly lit room, overlooking a group of girls who sat studiously around a large table with ink, parchment and paper. The priest saw Erik and jumped.</p><p>“You’re teaching them to read?” Erik asked Aedre, surprised. </p><p>“Why not?” she smiled. “And write. Now they tell the story.” </p><p>Father Cenhelm shuffled himself over to greet their visitor. </p><p>“Lord Erik,” he asked nervously. “What brings you here?”</p><p>“I’m paying my respects,” he said. </p><p>“You are?” the priest asked, tentatively.</p><p>Erik looked at the man, accusingly. “You and your brothers took my city,” he said. </p><p>“It was god’s will,” the priest answered, straightening up. He was unarmed, but the mild-mannered man was not going to be intimidated within his own household. </p><p>Erik squinted. He patted the priest’s shoulder, and he felt the man flinch under his touch. </p><p>“Without you, she would have been killed in the uprising,” he said, pointing at Aedre with his chin. “She’s safe. Because of you.” He nodded approvingly.</p><p>This was as far as Erik was willing to go to express his gratitude. A man had his pride. But the priest had given Aedre a lot more than safety, he realized. Together, they’d built themselves a new life, one that really suited her. She’d found her own path, and she was thriving.</p><p>Erik sat with Aedre in the abbey’s inner courtyard, eating bread and cheese while watching the younger girls play. It was peaceful, joyful even. But Erik felt there was no point in lingering. He finished the food she’d offered, thanked Aedre for her hospitality, and readied his horse to depart. </p><p>Aedre stood outside the abbey’s large doors, watching Erik climb onto his war horse, armed to the teeth. She felt as though his world of manly violence belonged to a strange, distant past. </p><p>“Thank you, Erik,” she said, with a kind smile. “It all began with you. I will not forget.” </p><p>“I am glad you found your peace,” he said, and he truly meant it. </p><p>“I will pray for you,” she teased. </p><p>“You do that!” he laughed. </p><p>Erik kicked his horse forward and smiled to himself as he rode through the blooming apple trees, wondering what Aedre’s god truly thought of him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As shown in TLK season 2, Erik and Sigefrid lost badly during their war against the Scots. </p><p>While they were gone fighting, there was a christian uprising in Eoferwic, lead by priests, during which most Danes and Norsemen were slaughtered. Erik and Sigefrid returned to Eoferwic under King Guthred’s banner, with whom they’d formed an alliance whose goal was to besiege Kjartan at Dulholm. </p><p>But Guthred's coalition fell apart after the king made a series of controversial decisions, including selling Uhtred into slavery and angering his uncle Aefric. Erik and Sigefrid walked out on Guthred and went rogue, raiding around Northumbria, until Uhtred attacked their camp and cut off Sigefrid's sword hand. The brothers took a single ship to Frankia where they rebuilt, only to return 3 years later (in 886) with 19 ships to take Beamfleot and Lunden. </p><p>When Erik meets Aedre again in 886, he's travelled from Frankia to try and convince Uhtred to see the dead man rising. Their end game is to trick Uhtred into betraying Alfred to join their war on Mercia and Wessex.</p>
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